Map of West Virginia counties (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The governor of West Virginia, Earl Ray Tomlin, introduced Senate Bill 359, an educational reform bill, which will be voted on soon. Teachers have given the bill a big, fat F, which in my opinion has nothing to do with reform.
Reform- to amend or improve by change of form or removal of fault or abuses.
I’m not going to go into each point of the bill, only to say that it is a slap in the face to all educators in the state of West Virginia. You know, teachers in the Mountain state make one of the lowest salaries in the nation. Many teachers head east to work outside the state borders to garner higher wages. But, in the end, teachers are working the best they can, despite the obstacles that are coming directly from the higher ups.
Obstacles, you say? Absolutely. Someone a few years ago had decided teachers need to test more. I give a beginning Math and Reading test at the beginning of the year. I give Benchmark tests twice a year in four subjects and the students have two online writing tests to get ready for the big one in March. The Westest is held in May. Now, mind you, this is on top of the tests I give weekly in Social Studies, Reading, Spelling, and Science. I also have to give end of the year tests.
I would just rather teach.
I’m 56 years old and I think I received a pretty good education when I was young. We memorized our multiplication tables. We learned our state capitals, had spelling bees, and wrote and presented book reports. It was all about Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. We grew up fine. Some of my peers did better than fine.
Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.
But, something along the way changed. Someone has decided that to exist in the 21st century, we must bathe our children in technology or they will surely die. So, in the elementary setting we are testing, and we are teaching technology….on top of Handwriting, Math, Spelling, Grammar, Reading, Science, Social Studies, and Health. And we are doing this in crowded classrooms.
If you want to reform, let’s first take a look at teacher/student ratio.
The governor wants to require early childhood education programs to be made available five days a week for the full day; allowing program to be for fewer than five days per week and less than full day under certain circumstances.
I don’t understand this. This is not the reform that we need. Before adding new programs, we need to address the teacher/student ratio in k-2. Class size should be limited to no more than 16 students and the curriculum should be restricted. Let me explain:
Years ago, there were a lot of two-parent households. A lot of the moms did not work outside the home. Someone was there to make sure students did their homework, and were more hands-on. Now, I’m not saying that a lot of people don’t still do that. Of course they do. But, for the most part, it is fact that the divorce numbers are much higher than they were years ago. Even without divorce, economics force both parents to work. Some single parent households need help. Grandparents are raising many of the children. Many children come from homes where abuse is a way of life. Drug use is more prevalant than it was years ago. Some children go to bed hungry. Yes, I realize that has also happened in the past, but in the end, the classroom is now a home- away- from- home for a lot of children.
I have fifteen students this year in my fourth grade classroom. Last year I had twenty-one. Six less students makes a world of difference. And those teachers with twenty-five and twenty-six students are overwhelmed. I know my students. I can look at one and know she is not feeling well because I know her so well. I send her to the office to get her temperature taken…101.6. I smile and give her a hug as she leaves to go home. I know not to give much homework because it is an unfair advantage to the several who are lucky to have a piece of notebook paper or pencil at their homes. No one goes through their backpacks at night. No one helps them practice their multiplication table. My mom drilled me nightly when I was in third grade. I knew them when I went to fourth grade. Some students in general just have no clue. Some children have behavioral issues. Some are learning disabled. Some have attention deficit problems. This is not the same mix of students that I went to school with, but yet, nothing has changed in the way of class size.
So, I teach time management skills in the classroom and basically let them do some homework during class time. This only seems fair to those who aren’t lucky enough to have help at home. Sure, in the end, fourth graders can learn to do their homework on their own, but they need guidance and direction..but sadly, a few are not receiving it at home. They are allowed to sit and kill things while playing their video games. And I know a majority of the boys do this. I ask these things…. Technology at its finest. When I was young we had three channels on tv and the World Book Encyclopedia as our internet. We honestly didn’t have much to do but our homework on school nights.
When you shove many children into a classroom, something is lost. So, let’s begin our educational reform by taking a look at teacher/student ratio. I know you won’t, because that would mean hiring new teachers. It’s bad enough that the governor wants to hire anyone with a bachelor’s degree to enter the classroom. You are going to be opening a can of worms if this hiring practice is passed, however. It will change the scope of teacher education in this state forever.
I know some of you will not agree with me on this next point, but I think technology is making us stupider. (Yes, I realize that is not a word.)
“The fog of information can drive out knowledge.”
Don’t get me wrong. I think technology in the classroom is great. I use it in some form every day. If we are studying volcanoes, I have a volcano simulator waiting on one of the computers. I have a penguin cam up some days. There are many, many internet sites that are extremely beneficial. That’s not what I am talking about.
The state of West Virginia implemented a program called Tech Steps. All students from kindergarten on must complete about six assignments. In my opinion, this program should not be used in the elementary school setting. Why do elementary school children need a technology component when we should be concentrating on core subjects? If you want our test scores to rise, don’t inundate us with work that can wait until fifth or sixth grade. You are making us waste precious time. Do third graders really need to learn how to use a spreadsheet? Sure, we are in a different world now, where computers and technology are at our every turn. I get it. I think it has merit in junior high, but not in the early grades where everything depends on them learning the basics so they can go on to the next year and build on that.
In the end, it is not the same as it was. We are forced to test too much when we should be teaching. We are forced to teach more children in our classroom than is beneficial to their educational growth. We are forced to teach technology, when in fact, we should review our multiplication one more time instead of completing yet another techsteps assignment that will have no bearing on other important educational milestones, such as defining words, rounding numbers, and correcting a run-on sentence. K-2 teachers should be teaching a limited curriculum, plain and simple.
There are only so many minutes in a day for an elementary school teacher. We have to teach Spelling, Social Studies, Science, Math, Reading, Grammar, handwriting, and Health. We are also referees, bankers, counselors, and health inspectors.
So, Senate Education committee people, there you have it; the rambling of a fourth grade teacher. If you truly want an educational reform in West Virginia, start with kindergarten and give those teachers a small class size. We teach with kids squished into our classrooms because that’s the way you want it. We test and test and test to make sure we are testing because that’s what we have to do. We teach technology subjects that the wee ones should not have to be introduced to until an older age. We do all this because you told us to. If something is broken, it’s not with the teachers. It is with the system. Please be careful with every point of our governor’s education reform bill. It needs to be chewed up and digested to see if it sits well with teachers. Take us in consideration instead of pointing fingers at us. Because after all,
You can lead a student to the test, but you can’t make him pass it.
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I was sitting at our local lazer wash the other day thinking back to the first time I ever went to an automatic car wash. I grew up in Weirton, West Virginia, and the new “automatic” car wash had just opened “up on the hill” near our home. I can’t remember what kind of car we had back then, but the whole family jumped in when my dad told us a car wash opened where you sit in the car while it is being washed. What??? No taking a bucket of water, soap, and a garden hose out into the driveway anymore? Well, not that I really helped wash our cars in the first place. I was and still am, a “non-finisher.” I just really can’t finish anything all the way through. Same for washing the car. I would get one side done and then spray the other side with the hose to knock some dust off and call it a day. You could never see that side from our picture window, so it looked like I did a great job.
When we pulled up to the new car wash, we had to wait in a line because, as all things new, people wanted to experience this new-fangled way to wash a car. It was the 60′s, after all, and inventions were just waiting to be invented. When it was our turn, a guy motioned for us to move up a bit. We then had to put the car in neutral. They guy then took some gigantic hook and put it somewhere in the front of the car.
“Will that pull off the bumper?” I thought that was a pertinent question.
The guy told my dad to make sure all of the windows were rolled up. We were ready. There was a little jerk and our car was on some track through a little building with these scrubber things on the sides. The noise was loud and the water was really hitting the windshield and roof of the car. To be perfectly honest, it was a bit scary. Those brushes were right up against our windows and then one roll up over the car and down the windshield. Hey, this was fun….but not really.
After we were done, there were two teen-age boys who wiped our car with dry cloths. My mom had to interject her authority of being Queen of Weirton.
“Make sure you dry the car good….and there better not be any spots of dirt anywhere.”
Oh, but there was. When we pulled into the driveway, she had my dad not park the car in the garage. She wanted to inspect the job the new automatic car wash did on our family vehicle.
“Well, we won’t be going there again.” I remember there were seven places that were missed. I smile at this because I can’t remember what I did fifteen minutes ago, but I can remember my mom ranting about SEVEN missed places on the car after visiting the new automatic car wash “up on the hill.” She loved to find something to bitch about. My dad was probably relieved that he wasn’t at the end of this particular rant. I remember thinking he was going to like this new car wash. Anything she disagreed about, my dad was then quietly all about.
So, one day I was sitting, watching tv, with our dog Smokey, on our lap. It was a hot summer day and my dad must not have wanted to wash the car by hand. I mean, who would want to, now that we basically had a robot to do it for us? He asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the car wash.
Since Smokey was already sitting on my lap, I just picked her up and carried her a la Paris Hilton with her prized chihuahua to the car. Smokey often rode in the car. As all chihuahuas, Smokey was a yapper. Yap, yap, yap. But, who knew what was about to transpire.
Well, Smokey went ape shit. The noise first scared her and she buried herself beside my hip. We were yanked ahead on the conveyor belt. When the brushes hit against the car, that’s when Smokey defended her territory and her family. She ran over to the window and bared her teeth and growled and barked like she was ready to take on the brushes. She ran back and forth, over my dad and over me to each window. She was going to save us from this barrage of red and yellow bristles attacking us.
Rotating brushes inside a conveyor car-wash. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I should have counted how many times she ran back and forth. My dad also found it amusing. Smokey the chihuahua was fighting with the brushes at the automatic car wash.
When we got home, Smokey was exhausted and fell fast asleep on my dad’s lap.
The next few times we went to the car wash, we took Smokey along for our pleasure. It seems so cruel now to put the little yapper through this sort of animal abuse, but you have to understand I never once thought I was being abusive. I just thought it was really really funny.
And each time we got home, my mom would disappear downstairs for a few minutes. We knew she was heading for the garage.
English: The Rocky Mountaineer boards at Banff. Image by User:Leonard G. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I was little I traveled on Amtrak from Pittsburgh to Spokane Washington with my mom, brother and sister. It took three days and three nights and I fell in love with train travel from that point on. I never traveled by train again until last summer when I thought I would take a different mode of transportation to visit my daughter in New York City. I think I smiled all the way into the Big Apple. There is something about the clickety clack of the train as it travels over the countryside and the whistle blowing at interections that I just really enjoy.
For years I have said my “trip of a lifetime” would be to travel through Canada by train to Victoria and Vancouver, supposedly some of the most beautiful cities on the planet. I know others would probably choose a more exotic location if they were choosing “a trip of a lifetime,” but mine is Canada by train.
Well, I just booked a trip for this summer aboard the Rocky Mountaineer through the Canadian Rockies. This is a trip I have had on my so-called bucket list for several years now. I haven’t been able to go because of my poor old cat, Whiskers. She passed away in October, so it looks like I will have some free time to take a trip longer than three nights.
I am beside myself with excitement. I decided not to travel all the way from Halifax to Vancouver just yet. I mean, I watched the episode of Sex and the City where Samantha and Carrie traveled to San Francisco by train. They were miserable. But, then again, I don’t think they left New York City too often, and I have to realize they weren’t really real people, so I need to erase that visual out of my mind.
I looked at routes and found this Rocky Mountaineer train. Hmmmmmm, this is right up my alley. I can’t get this song out of my head.
Rocky Mountaineer is a privately owned company. They offer three classes of service; Red Leaf, Silver Leaf, and Gold Leaf. The Gold Leaf offers perks for someone who is taking “a trip of a lifetime.” I want to travel in a glass enclosed train car and walk down a spiral staircase for a gourmet breakfast and lunch.
I want complimentary drinks even though I don’t drink…much. So, I booked the Gold Leaf, which also gave me deluxe accommodations in the hotels.
Hotels, you say? Yes. Depending upon the route you take, you can stay overnight on the way to your destination. I was overwhelmed with the choices and routes. The packages are called things like “Circle Rail,” “First Passage to the West,” and “Journey Through the Clouds,” just to name a few. I had to mull over where I wanted to start and where I wanted to end.
Photo credit: Fresh Tracks
I decided to fly from Pittsburgh to Vancouver, and then travel on their “First Passage to the West” in reverse and fly out of Calgary. Six delirious nights. And it isn’t just train travel. There are things to do when you get off the train if you wish. And I wish. So, this is my itinerary. I liked what Rocky Mountaineer offered in their package design especially for what I would like to do on this trip, but in the end I decided to go with a travel agency called Fresh Tracks/Canadian Train Vacations. The only main difference between the two companies was Fresh Tracks was going to have someone waiting for me at the Vancouver Airport for the drive to my hotel. The cost was about the same for both and I loved working with both companies.
I booked “The Essential Rockies” with Fresh Tracks. My custom built itinerary looks something like this:
Day 1- Fly into Vancouver. I added a second night in Vancouver because I was afraid if my flight from Pittsburgh to Toronto to Vancouver was delayed or something, I would have another option to get to Vancouver before the train left the station. I plan to take a bus over to Stanley Park, which is the third largest city park in North America. It looks beautiful. I will be staying at Sutton Place. The reservationist on the phone told me that there are a lot of movies filmed in the Vancouver area and a lot of celebrities and crew stay at the Sutton. That would be cool to ride an elevator with someone famous.
Day 2- Discover Vancouver and Grouse Mountain Sunset Tour- I will be traveling by trolley to the base of Grouse Mountain, where I will take the largest gondola in North America to the top of the mountain. Much to do on top of the mountain.
Day 3- Ahhhh My Rocky Mountaineer adventure begins. I will be picked up and transferred to the train station where the fun begins. They have an open vestibule on the back of each car where I plan to be for a good bit of the time, pretending to be a photographer. The pictures I have seen of the Canadian Rockies are majestic, and I can not wait to experience it behind my own camera lens. First night stay in Kamloops.
Day 4- My adventure continues as we travel to Banff. This is supposed to be the most magnificient part of any train route through the Rockies. We will pull into Banff in the evening and I will be transferred to my hotel, The RimRock for two nights.
Day 5- I added this part to my itinerary. Day 5 was supposed to be a free day to visit and walk through the town of Banff. And I want to do that, but I also wanted to travel to the Athabasca Glacier and drive onto the glacier in a special Ice Explorer. It’s a nine hour tour. I will be picked up at my hotel and with a small tour, stop at sights along the way for general sightseeing there and back. It will be interesting to stand on a glacier. I don’t get to do that too often in West Virginia.
Day 6 Leave Banff and meander through the Rockies with a private guide stopping along more majestic picture taking opportunities. We will then end up at Lake Louise. I can not wait to stay there. Lake view. I will have to take a canoe ride.
Day 7: Alas, my adventure will end today at the end of the month of June. I hope for clear, sunny days, and fault-free trip itineraries. I will keep you posted. My driver will take me to the Calgary airport for my flight for home. I guess I should have mentioned that I am doing this by myself. A couple of people told me it wouldn’t be any fun by myself. Hmmmm. I think I’m a lot of fun. Add Canada and a train to the mix and the fact that I don’t know a stranger, I think I will be just fine. I mean, I did a test run and flew to Disney World by myself last year. If I can do a solo trip there and not feel lonely, I think I’m good to go.
I notice that animals and their ancestors never learned a damn thing about “looking both ways before you cross the road.” Parents always teach their kids that phrase. I’m glad I did. My son lives in Tbilisi, Georgia, where cars and trucks don’t really obey traffic lights or zebra crossings. It makes me a nervous wreck. My daughter lives in New York City. Need I say more?
So, on my way to work I have come across a higher than usual deceased creature lying on the road. Don’t they know the “side of the road- good. Road- bad?” Are they stupid? I’m thinking they are stupid.
Now, you have to understand that my mind wanders on the forty minute drive to work and most days I arrive in the parking lot and realize that I don’t remember the drive. I have that much on my mind. But, saying that, I still have time to take a look at the lump in or beside the road. And yesterday, I noticed there were too many of them. Did the population increase because we had a mild winter? If the food source is greater on the other side of the road, why the hell would momma raccoons have their litter across the heavily traveled road? Raccoons are smart little terrorists. I call the terrorists because they liked to terrorize me at my former home. I would feed them, and one night while I was outside, standing beside our pool, one went one way and the other went the other way and cornered me. Sure, they knew I was the food lady, but seeing a blop of red eyes coming from both sides does cause me worry. One night I heard my husband yell and one of the damn raccoons swiped one of his flip flops in his mouth and was heading over the hill to the woods. So, yeah, they are smart. But, yet, there were five dead raccoons on the road yesterday. Yeah, I counted them.
That’s the problem. I try not to look, but my eyes go right to the victim. It’s like I’m playing, “Guess That Dead Creature.” I know I’m not the only one who does it. Well, I stopped yesterday after seeing a poor little squirrel, lying on his back, with his arms up in the air. I knew that he would be squished and unrecognizable on my drive home. Years ago some drunk kids stopped and put an empty beer bottle in a dead ground hogs rigor mortised hands on the side of the road. It was funny, but it was not funny, because, well, I like wildlife. Groundhogs are especially stupid.
Groundhogs may know how to build tunnels and eat enough to sleep all winter, but they have decided that eating stuff right beside a busy road is the way to go. Oh, it is the way to go, for sure. I think groundhogs are the #1 road kill in the United States. Groundhogs are already famous with farmers for not being too smart. That’s why they are also called whistle pigs. Farmer would stand, waiting for the crop destroyer with their rifle, and then would whistle. Groundhogs stand up to see who whistled. And then the farmer pulls the trigger. Poor stupid groundhog.
I hate to tell you this, but there is a law in my state of West Virginia that allows people who hit an animal to take it home to cook it. I cringed when I first read that. I mean, West Virginia gets a bad rap as it is. Hey, I know, let’s add a ridiculously red neck law to make us look even more like country bumpkins. Ugh.
I take that back. Deer are the number 1 roadkill animal in the United States. I’m making that up, maybe. I didn’t look it up. I’m assuming deer because they are on every part of my drive every day. My husband (now ex-husband) hit deer more than seven times on his way to work. He drives like Mr. Magoo, so there is a slight chance that he was not on the road correctly to begin with. He always drifted over to the berm of the road. Stupid driver meets stupid wildlife road crosser. The end result can not be good for either.
Who’s stupider…the opposum, the street painter, or me for using the word, stupider? I’m thinking the street painter.
I guess my whole point with this post is to remind wildlife to please look both ways before they cross the road. We are still asking
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
It wasn’t intended to be a joke, folks. It was more like, chickens asking each other when one of them didn’t come home.
“What the hell was Ruby thinking, crossing the road and all?”
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I remember being so nervous when I started fourth grade. I had spent my first three years of school at a private school in Wintersville, Ohio, that was run by a coven of sadistic nuns. (Notice that “coven” actually means “a group of witches.”) I did that on purpose. I hated going to that school. I begged my mom about every day to let me attend Edgewood, our local public school. I was so excited when I found out I was going to switch schools in the fall.
“ Vickie, we are going to let you go to school with your friends this year.”
I loved how she said, “we.” My dad had no say in the matter. My mom was a rolling pin wife and my dad was Wally Cox. He had no spine when it came to her. He hid behind his newspaper and made faces at her when she wasn’t looking. Oh, how I loved him. She would yell at him and he would just take it. Then, he would hop on his little red tractor to cut the grass, and run over her flower bed. And he would look over at me and smile. He knew he was going to get yelled at.
So, back to me. I couldn’t wait to attend school with my bff, Ramaine. We could ride the bus together and sit by each other in class and everything was peachy keen. Well, except that it wasn’t. I had Miss Emler.
Aunt Bee (Frances Bavier) in her kitchen and apron, from “The Mayberry Chef.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Miss Melvina Emler. I honestly do not remember much about her. When I think of her, I picture Aunt Bee from The Andy Griffith Show, but she looked nothing like her. And she definitely didn’t act like her. I just spent three years at the Little Jesus Baby Immaculate Conception, a school with nuns. Oh, not just any common nuns, if there even is such a thing.I’m talking about the evil kind. I wanted to come to Edgewood and see balloons and unicorns and lollipop gardens. Instead, I saw the Dumb Row.
I’ve briefly mentioned Ms. Emler’s Dumb Row before, but it made me think of it yesterday when day-dreaming how wonderful it would be to have a marine standing beside one of my fourth graders to help them listen to my directions so they don’t repeatedly ask a hundred times a day “So, what are we supposed to do?” I frowned though, at remembering Ms. Emler’s Dumb Row. I really tried hard not to be placed in that row for stupid kids.
When I entered the classroom that first day of public school, I was a happy child. I was with my best friend and all the neighbor girls that I hung out with after school and throughout the summers. This was going to be great. But, also remember that I was as hyper as Speedy Gonzales on speed. My mom tried to minimize that by slipping me a mild tranquilizer every morning before school and disguised it as a “car sick pill.” Thanks, Mom. Did it help? I have no idea, but I think that it may. It didn’t help with my car sickness, however. I had no idea that I was being tranquilized every morning. Who does that to a child? My mom.
Anyway, I had my hyper moments, I am sure, but seemed to do well in fourth grade. I stared at that Dumb Row sign daily and never wanted to stit there.The row was never empty. It was one of those old row of oak desks that were connected to each other and bolted to the floor. There were three boys who sat in the Dumb Row almost every day: Nickey, Bert, and Joe. I changed their names so they won’t get pissed it they read their names here. The chances are slim.
These boys lived in the Dumb Row. Years ago, teachers got away with that crap. You could grab a kid by the arm, drag him to a Dumb Row, and then smack the shit out of him. I don’t remember any smacking, but I remember plenty of talking down to students because, well, I was one of those. Ms. Emler apparently thought I was a wise-guy one day and put my ass in the Dumb Row.
It’s amazing how you can remember something that happened when you were in fourth grade but can’t remember what you did fifteen minutes ago. I can vividly recall the first day Ms. Emler put me in the Dumb Row. We were going over our homework for Spelling. We had to write sentences, using each of our spelling words. We were studying compound words at the time. She would say each spelling word, and then pick a student to read the sentence we had for that word.
“Cardboard…..Vickie, read the sentence you have for cardboard.” She stood right in front of me, holding her teacher’s manual to her chest. I would gladly read my sentence, for I was quite creative in my sentence formations.
” I live in a cardboard box.”
I don’t know why she just stared at me. Didn’t she hear me? She must not have. I read it again, this time with feeling. “I live in a cardboard box.” I think I may have sounded like a flaming gay guy the second time. The students laughed. Ms. Emler did not.
“What kind of sentence is that?” Ms. Emler slammed her teacher’s manual on my desk. What the hell.
“Um…..it’s a ……………….declarative sentence?” I didn’t know what she expected from me. I had my homework. I wrote complete sentences. I answered her question correctly. What the hell.
“Vickie, you do not live in a cardboard box! I have been to your house. That sentence is absolutely ridiculous! Go sit in the Dumb Row!
Corrugated shipping container, one type of “cardboard box” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I had never seen Ms. Emler so mad. The only thing I could think of was that she must live in a cardboard box somewhere and the subject was a little touchy. But, that couldn’t be true. Oh, sure, she wore the same five dresses every week, but where would she hang them if she lived in a cardboard box? They don’t have closets. I didn’t get it.
I quietly stood up and glanced over at the empty seat waiting for me in the Dumb Row. I’ve always had this thing about inanimate objects, and I really think that row of seats was happy I was going to sit there for a while. I saw the sign on the first desk, announcing the row. The three goof ball boys looked shocked, which is better, I guess, than the blank look that sat on their face most days.
I burst into tears. I didn’t understand why I had to go sit in the Dumb Row. Dori and Kathleen smiled at each other. They thought it was highly amusing that I was going to sit in the Dumb Row. I stuck my tongue out at them and then continued on with the crying. Not good, Vickie.
Miss Emler thought I was sticking my tongue out at her, behind her back.
“Ok, you can just sit there all week, Vickie. You don’t live in a cardboard box and you should never disrespect a teacher.”
I didn’t understand that last part. How can you disrespect a teacher for crying and walking over to the Dumb Row? I wrote a goddamn complete sentence. I skipped a line. I used my best penmanship. I even underlined the spelling word like we were supposed to. Why can’t I live in a cardboard box? I didn’t understand.
So, I sat and cried all week in the Dumb Row. Every time I looked at Miss Emler I saw Sister Dominica from the Jesus Mary and Joey Immaculate Academy.
And so when I broke out of my daydream, I looked over at my fourth grader who asks for directions immediately after I give directions and write the directions on the board. It happens a zillion times a day. It’s tiring. But, I don’t want to be a Miss Emler. I don’t want to be a mean teacher. I am not allowed to have a Dumb Row.
So, I went over the directions yet another time. I will try not to lose my mind.
It’s really easy to get me addicted to new things. After my divorce, my friends talked me into coming over to Facebook….to farm. I did. Farmville kept me up late at night. Well, someone had to harvest the damn wheat crop. And then Pinterest reeled me in. I have over one hundred boards. Why the hell would I need one hundred boards? Yes, I’m easily addicted. I’m just glad I never started smoking.
Several months ago I started playing Angry Birds. I mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I play one game a day and am in a weekly tournament. And this on top of writing two books this summer. As I look around my living room, I notice that it is neat as a pin. Well, it should be since I have been on this damn computer most of the time. And now SongPop has invaded my life. But, I’m not too happy about this one.
SongPop is my newest obsession. A friend invited me just last week to play them in this fun Facebook game. I didn’t understand how to play at first, so I was already screwed for the week. A friend sends an invitation to listen to a few tunes and then you can pick the answer from four choices. No one told me there was a time limit. Right now I am playing about nine people. And I’m ready to throw in the towel and I will tell you why.
This game is a great test of reaction times. Most of the people I play are about 20 years younger than me and I can’t press the button fast enough. I know a lot of the answers, but it’s like I mosey on over to the button with my mouse. What the hell? This is a sure way to let me know that I am getting old. It’s actually pissing me off, because I am actually really trying and I just can’t ring in fast enough. I’d suck if I were on Jeopardy.
A Facebook friend wrote that she was done with SongPop due to the fact that she feels that she has a neuropathy problem. She is a sarcastic lass like me, and I hope she doesn’t really think that she has a problem. I’m just pissed off that age has robbed us of our rapid fire response finger. We are getting old and SongPop has just slapped us across the face. We can’t play with the big dogs anymore. Well, I guess I should only speak for myself. I can’t play with the big dogs anymore.
But, that’s not all. I don’t know music like I used to. I still know all the words to Aqualung and Hotel California. I know my Disco and Classic Rock. I don’t know a damn thing about Modern Rap or Latin Radio. My daughter was home this week and she sat on the couch playing SongPop and would send me songs in the Latin Music genre. Thanks, sweetie.
The fastest I have been able to buzz in on a song is Ice Ice Baby. How sad is that?
In the end, I guess the older I get, the worse my response time will be. Pretty soon someone will take my car keys away from me for fear that I will hesitate and then pull in front of a truck or something.
But, then again, I always sucked at Hungry Hungry Hippo. Maybe it’s just me.
I must live under a rock. I have no idea what the hell is going on most days. And then I get laughed at for being such a dingbat. I mean, I’m fifty-five. Is that old? I don’t feel old. Well, I do moan when I bend over to pick things up. Ok, I’m old.
But, I always thought that I was with the times. My mother-in-law used the word “dungarees” for jeans until the day she died. My mom favored, “pocketbook.” I don’t think she ever used the word, “purse.” I thought I understood contemporary slang. Nope. Not at all.
It all started with me overhearing one of my kid’s friends saying something about watching MTV Cribs.
MTV Cribs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I think this was like when it first came out circa 2000. Well, hell, I thought they were talking about singers who had children. Seriously. I really did.
“I didn’t know that Moby had children?” I thought I was really with it because I knew who Moby was. I got laughed at. Then it was explained to me that cribs=homes.
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.” My daughter laughed at me. Well, I guess I was. It didn’t get any better. I sure as hell had no idea that “hooking up” meant having sex with someone. How casual people are speaking nowadays. I heard this on tv one night:
“So, did you guys hook up last night?” Back in MY day that would have meant “So, did you guys meet somewhere last night and then go to the movies or something?” And yet, my daughter is the one who scoffs at me because I still use the phrase, “Are they going together?” Well, hell, back in the 70′s that meant going steady. What the hell is wrong with that?
So, now I am getting really made fun of at the school where I teach because I didn’t understand “That’s what he said.” WTF are you talking about? Evidently, I often say things that my perverted co-workers laugh at and then insert that comment. I didn’t know why. And that made them laugh harder. I mean, why say that after I talk about the snow fall from the night before. “I only got an inch or two last night.”……that’s what she said. It took me a while.
My biggest misunderstanding came from the History Channel show, American Pickers. Just a few months ago, after talking about heading out to go antiquing, someone asked me if I ever watched American Pickers. I thought that was a pretty random comment, considering we were talking about antiques.
“No, to be honest, I am not a real big fan of Country music.”
Yeah, so they laughed. Hell, I didn’t know it was about guys hunting around barns and whatnot for antiques and collectibles. I thought it was about people playing fiddles and banjos. Seriously.
So, it was no surprise that I didn’t understand my two friends when we were leaving dinner last night and they were laughing and making motions with their arms like a “raise the roof” motion. I drove up to them and rolled down the window.
“Padiddle!” They both yelled and then laughed. “You’re headlight is out, Vickie.” Of course, it doesn’t pay hanging out with girls in their late twenties when I am in my mid-fifties. I realized I have no idea what the hell is going on. So, I just laughed.
So, when they read this blog post, they will laugh again because I am just so clueless about Padiddle. I had to look it up on Wikipedia:
“Padiddle is a night-time travel game with the objective of earning points by spotting vehicles with a burnt-out headlight. You must say “Padiddle” and hit the ceiling of the car as fast as you can, while driving.”
So, Sheena and Erin were laughing because it is a game that is supposed to be played in the car while traveling. I thought they were laughing at me because I just bought this car and it already had its headlight burned out. I guess that makes me feel better…….. No, don’t feel better. I’m still a dingbat.
I don’t remember my kids ever playing “Padiddle.” I sure as hell didn’t teach them. And if they played it and I don’t remember them playing the car game, then I have bigger problems than not knowing what things mean.
I am too old for this shit. Why can’t we just keep playing Slug Bug?
I just cranked out my second book. I finished my first book on July 7 and have been working on this one ever since. I didn’t get to go to the beach this summer, so I concentrated on my writing. This book is up for sale as an ebook on Amazon also.
I have always been a fool for play on words Halloween costume ideas. Some of you may remember my Halloween posts every October in which I share more costume ideas. I bought an idiom two weeks ago and have been highlighting those idioms that I could turn into Halloween ideas. I uploaded the damn book before I realized that I hadn’t even added the ones I found in the idiom book. Live and learn.
Anyway, if you plan to attend a Halloween party or wear a costume to work or school, this book has something for everyone. Check it out. And I am going to have to start visting my gym again. I’ve been writing non stop and doing not much else.
My mom made it quite known to me after I had children that she didn’t believe in bragging about her children. Well, Mom, that was obvious. All I was doing was calling her to tell her both of the kids made it to the state social studies fair. I mean, that was an awesome feat that siblings could win the local and then county Social Studies fair. And since she lived two hours away, she would not have know about any of this.
Regardless, I had to hear her tear me down one more time. “Vickie, I think that’s great. You know, you three kids did a lot when you were little, but I never believed in bragging.” No, no you didn’t mom. Well, except when it came to my stomach.
Now, you have to understand that I really didn’t excel at much. I didn’t play a musical instrument. I did try out for our junior high band, if that is what you want to call it, but they just refused to hand me a clarinet or flute or whatever the hell I wanted to learn to play. We had to take a music test of some sort and I really couldn’t hear the difference in tone. I was a tone deaf clarinet challenged retard. It was just another test that I flunked. Like the early entrance test to start school early.
I did win a safety slogan contest when I was in fourth grade and even got a little trophy. That was a big deal. I think my mom came up with the slogan though. I’m not sure. I’m just saying that to continue on with my “I really didn’t excel at much” scenario.
I wasn’t much on selling stuff to win contests in our Bluebird and Campfire Girls troop. I absolutely hated going door-to-door and asking people if they wanted to buy goddamn light bulbs or magazines or even candles. I remember the candle drive. I think I went to five houses and each lady of the house bought something, but I just was tired of that bullshit and went home. I was actually doing pretty well, but I just wasn’t into it. Thank goodness I didn’t have to collect money during the sale, because then I would have had to follow through with it.
My best friend won a selling contest and got to wear a Clorox bottle crown, sit in the front row and hold flowers. I was happy for her because she sold a shit load of whatever we were selling. It wasn’t for me, so I just smiled for the picture as a loser in the back row. Not that the other girls were losers in the back row. Sorry, MaryLou. Talking about me, not you.
So, no, I didn’t excel at much and my mom didn’t brag about me too much….until summer time rolled around.
I don’t know what it was in my neighborhood, but for some reason we liked to lay out in the sun. Like all the time. If we weren’t at the pool, we were laying out. And I laid out on our back patio on a towel. On the concrete. You’d think that my parents would buy some porch furniture for the back, but they never did. That just dawned on me right now. I know my mom always said that the sun didn’t like her and she rarely sat outside, well, because there was no place to sit. We had one lawn chair on our front porch and that was it. So, I laid out on a towel.
The summer after I was a freshman in high school was the summer of my great tan. I was quite dark. I mean, like really dark. And my stomach for some reason was the darkest. I had a little egg timer and would roll over when it would ding. I was like frying my body. Would think that I would look like a piece of leather or a shriveled up raisin now that I am in my fifties. Oh contrare. I still look quite young. Well, that is what my fourth graders tell me. They think I am 30. …brown nosing little shits.
So, whenever my mom and dad would have company or one of her women friends stopped by for coffee, gossip, and cigarettes, my mom always called me into the kitchen.
“Vickie, show her your stomach.”
“What?”
“Lift up your shirt and show her your stomach.”
Um, ok. I would lift up my little summer shirt to reveal my stomach. And my mom would then laugh and say something different each time, depending on who was sitting there, sharing her coffee.
“Now is that a Florida tan or what?”……………..”Look how dark she is.”……………”Have you ever seen anyone so dark?”………………….”I know. She looks almost like a black person.”………….”And she puts baby oil on her stomach.”………………….”and it really doesn’t fade…………”
She didn’t care what I was doing. If we had company and it was summer time, I knew at some point I would be raising my shirt. “Vickie!…..Vickie!!…….Come up here!…..” I wished she didn’t have friends.
So, the bragging began. No, it wasn’t for being smart as there weren’t any A+ papers on the refrigerator. No, it wasn’t for winning a slogan contest or for even singing Are you Sleeping, Brother John in front a whole auditorium of Campfire Girls or memorizing everyone’s line during the church Christmas play. No, my mom bragged about my stomach tan.
Typical.
You’d think that with the invention of tanning beds that I would still be a fool for a tan. When I did have a pool,I had a tan, but it was a SUN tan. Those tanning beds are not the same thing. My sister has a sun tan business and about 12 beds in her place. I laid in it one time years ago, and felt like I was in a damn coffin. It just wasn’t for me. I am more of a plant me under the sun kind of gal, and haven’t done that for a few years. When I go to the beach, I head under an umbrella after a while as I guess “the sun doesn’t like me” anymore.
I learned Spanish when I was in first through third grades. It’s always fun to throw in a new language when you are still trying to figure out what the hell a vowel and a consonant are in English. Honestly, though, the earlier you learn a foreign language, the longer it sticks in your head. I learned Espanol when I was incarcerated in my early grades at the Immaculate Conception Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy.
I have mentioned over and over how much I hated attending that private school. I will never forget my first day of school and coming face to face with Sister Dominica. In my book, Jumping in Mud Puddles (shameless plug), I lovingly describe Sister Donkey:
“…so I opened the door and stepped outside. I must have walked back and forth the length of the car twenty or twenty-one times before that bus pulled up. Shit. Are you kidding me? It wasn’t a bus at all. It was an ugly blue van. And when that ugly blue pretend bus pulled up that first day of school and opened its door, out jumped a freaking nun. A nun was driving the pretend bus! She introduced herself as Sister Dominica, and she was the bus driver and a teacher at the Blessed Baby Jesus and Mary Conception Academy.
“I had never seen a nun before in real life. My mom tried to explain where I was going and who I would have for my teachers, but I couldn’t get past the fact I couldn’t see this Sister Dominica’s hair. Did she have hair? If she had hair, what color was it? Was that cardboardy white thing pinching her underneath her chin? I reluctantly got into the van and waved goodbye to my mother from my seat. She was standing there with her hand over her mouth. Shit. Thanks, Mom. This was not going to be good.”
And it wasn’t good. I think I was the only one who wasn’t brainwashed. The other kids seemed really happy to be there. Dear God, I was in Stepford. That’s the only explanation for this parade of smiles and unicorns I could come up with. The only thing I liked about the whole damn experience was the time I sat in Spanish class. Of course, Oompah Loompah Sister Dominica was the teacher, but her whole “I’m a bitch nun, don’t even piss me off” persona was left at the door when she taught Spanish. It was so much fun.
We were in school for a few weeks before we were told we would also be learning Spanish. I was going to love this. Ok, there is one tiny thing I didn’t like about Spanish class. On the first day of school, Sister Dominica pulled down a map of South America and pointed with a long stick, which I think was a yardstick instead of one of those white sticks real teachers use. She told us all about her coming all the way from……Peru? (I don’t know, I wasn’t listening) and how she learned to speak English just like we were now learning Spanish. I had a question.
“Vickie, no, the capital of Peru is pronounced LEE MAH………Yes it is……………..Yes it is………..Vickie, I can tell you for a fact that it is pronounced like that. I lived there for many years……..No, it is not where lima beans come from because it is not the same thing…………..Because it is not…………………It’s LEE MAH, Vickie…………………….That’s enough. Please quit asking questions.”
Well, hell, aren’t you supposed to ask questions in school? Sure, I could sit there like Hansel, the kid who wore suspenders every day. He was dead. He never moved. He looked straight ahead and that was about it. I threw a piece of rolled up paper at him one time, and the damn kid never flinched. Someone should take his pulse. If I had my mom’s bright pink lipstick, I would have put lipstick on him. How fun that would have been. But, anyway, I thought my LEE MAH/Lima question was pertinent. Sister Dominica had the patience of a saint. Oh wait. They are patient. She was no saint.
Sister Dominica pulled the map down on the second day of spanish class and reminded us about her being from South America and asked us what country she was from. Duh. But, oh my god, Hansel raised is hand. I almost fell out of my freaking chair.
“You are from Peru.” Hansel was alive! Dear god I had witnessed a miracle! It was like Kathryn Kuhlman, American faith healer and evangelist, had just performed one of her healings. “Heal!” My mouth dropped open. Thank god he didn’t answer that question while wearing pink lipstick. I just smiled at him. I was going to make him my best school friend. I’d have to find out some day what his real name was. I was so glad he was alive.
Sister Dominica brought down that damn map of South American almost every day of the week. Ok, we get it, Senorita Dominica. Let’s learn some more words. And we did. We first were given spanish names. I didn’t really understand this part, but I went along with it. People were picking great spanish names like Pedro, Paco, Chico, and Miguel for the boys. The girls were choosing Anita, Benita, Bonita, and Lupita. I was seeing a pattern emerging with the names for the girls ending with -ita. Mine was going to end that way also.
“Your turn, Vickie. What is going to be your spanish name for the year?……………..No, you can’t have Vickita……….No, that is not even a name………….No, it is not………………….No, it is not……………….Do you know of one person whose name is Vickita?…………………..No, that is a Chiquita banana, not Vickita…………………….Ok, if you can’t choose one on your own, I will give you one. Your new name is Rosita.”
And with that remark, she wrote it down in her book and I was pissed. I mean, like shoot red lazers out of my eyes pissed. I was goddamn Rosita from LEE MAH.
Ok, so the map and my name and having Sister Donkey as my teacher were the only thing I hated about spanish class. The rest was just awesome. I learned to count in spanish: uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis siesta ocho nueve diez. Sister Dominica always corrected me with numbero 7, but I wanted to be a comedian and say siesta instead of siete. She had enough of me. But, guess what? Hansel/aka Paco laughed out loud. Oh yes, Paco was my new best school friend.
Pretty soon I was speaking fluent spanish. Ok, I wasn’t, but I thought I was. I was learning new words every day:
perro- dog
gato- cat
por favor- please
gracias- thank you
bueno- good
stupido-stupid
Aprende a conducir aweonao!!- Learn to drive asshole!
Baboso-retard
Kieta el stupido elephante- Shut up you stupid elephant
Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono- You are uglier than the butt of a monkey
Tirate a un poso- throw yourself in a hole
and my favorite, Las monjas no se puede enseñar- Nuns can’t teach.
Ok, so I may have just learned colors and numbers and places on my body that first year of spanish. But, it was fun.
And years later, I still know that Lima (LEE MAH) is the capital of Peru…..home of sister Donkey. AND, I just found out that lima beans really did come from Peru. So, who is the smart one, now, Sister Dominica? Not you. So, next time you have LEE MAH beans, pronounce them as they were intended to be pronounced. And you will be looking like the smart one. Really.
My literary debut, Jumping in Mud Puddles is free for download today, Thursday, July 12, through Amazon. If you don’t have a Kindle, don’t worry. It can be downloaded to your iPad, iPhone or even your computer. There is a quick and painless download from Amazon. I bought a Kindle last week before I knew you could even do this.
Jumping in Mud Puddles is a book of stories that I have taken from my blog of the same name. I have added and tweaked my posts into 44 chapters.
Here is the book description:
“Raise your hand if you-
1) Have ever been chased by a nun.
2) Have been stung by a bee because it was injured and you tried to hug it and then you went into anaphylactic shock because the damn thing stung you on the cheek and you had to be rushed to the hospital (The bee didn’t make it).
3) Have ever made a tent caterpillar/dandelion meal in your cabin in the woods and have fed it to unsuspecting neighbor children.
4) Were slipped a mild tranquilizer and was told it was a car sick pill……for years.
5) Have killed the Boogeyman after lying in wait for it/him under your bed.
6) Have peed your pants from laughing because a monkey has stepped onto your best friend’s head and the best friend doesn’t know what is on her head.
7) Have puked on the school bus and all the kids had to raise their feet while the bus was going up hills.
If you have not been able to raise your hand for any of these normal every day experiences, you are invited to join Vickie as she revisits her childhood during the fifties, sixties, and early seventies. Visit the private Catholic school where she was sent because she flunked an early entrance exam. Sister Potato Head is waiting to stick you into the low reading group, “The Slow Sloths.” Follow Vickie as she takes you for a walk around the best neighborhood in Weirton, West Virginia. Don’t eat anything she tries to feed you in her cabin in the woods, however, especially if she is giggling as she hands it to you, but yet promises it doesn’t contain “real” things.
Jumping in Mud Puddles is a witty self-deprecating memoir with stories that will either make you smile because it reminds you of your own childhood or it will make you laugh because you are glad you weren’t a picky, hyper, big fat liar like Vickie.
And for the record, the cursing throughout the book is a really bad habit that grown-up Vickie acquired while teaching fourth grade. I mean, she doesn’t curse in front of the class…..yet. She apologizes for her potty mouth and hopes that you will see that she is just a grown up version of that skinny child of the sixties. Well, you can leave out the skinny part.”
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Thanks! If you feel so inclined to give me a review after you finished reading my little book that would be great, or tag and like me. If not, again, the download is free just today.
Photograph of a Green Frog en ( Rana clamitans en ). Photo taken at the Tyler Arboretum. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I was young, there were always smashed frogs in the middle of the road in front of my house. Ok, I realize that I may be talking about toads, but for this post I am going to group them together and call them frog toads. The boys in the neighborhood used to pick them up and fling them at us girls. The poor unfortunate frog toads would be hard and paper thin. I guess if you were repeatedly run over by a car, you would become flat too. I don’t see dead frog toads on the road anymore. I mean, not that I am looking for them or anything. But, yeah, I guess I am. And I just don’t see them.
According to Wikipedia, there has been a decline in populations of amphibians in the past three decades. From scientific studies that were performed, it was found that 32% of species are threatened and between 9 and 122 species have become extinct since 1980. There is also another list that puts 486 amphibians as “critically endangered.” And I just bet those smashed frog toads on the road are part of one of those studies.
Wouldn’t it be awful to never hear the sounds of the spring peepers? Their choir down by my old pond performed for me all the time. Bullfrogs would bellow periodically. I used to love to sit outside on my front porch at night and listen to their wonderful music. What if that goes away too?
I’ve noticed a lot of changes since I was young. We all know about the plight of the honeybee. I really don’t know if tent caterpillars serve any purpose, but I really don’t see those white sticky nests like I used to years ago. I think I’m still paying attention. And what about the Japanese beetles? They used to be a huge pain in the ass just ten years ago. They would always appear in my part of West Virginia the last week of June.
And what about the grasshopper? Dear god, where the hell are you, Hopper? I saw one yesterday and I swear it is the first one I have seen in a long time. Is it just me? Maybe bugs don’t like West Virginia anymore. I don’t think that would be the case. We are a lovely place for insects.
I guess I’m just scared. I don’t have grandchildren yet, but I would hate it if my future grandson wasn’t able to fling a dead smashed frog toad onto his sister.
I am beside myself. My book, Jumping in Mud Puddles, just went live on Amazon. This is my literary debut, so I really don’t know what the hell I am doing. I do want to mention to anyone who is thinking about going the ebook route that the formatting is very easy. I mean, I did it, and I can’t find my way out of a sack. I even made my own cover because I am too tight to pay someone else to do it.
So, I guess I should know what I am supposed to do now, but I don’t. My book is just sitting there among the thousands of other books. I just left it there and went for a chocolate ice cream cone. Oh, hell, that was a lie. There was no way I was going out of the house today. It is 102 here in West Virginia. Anyway, I feel like I did when I drove my kids to college for the first time. I dropped them off and left them. I’ve nurtured this book for a very long time now and now I’m done.
So, my blogging friends, if you get the chance, go take a look see at my literary debut. Wow, I’m a real bonafide author sort of maybe. And If you are feeling generous, leave me a thumbs up or a review. And then more people will say to themselves, “Hey, people are reading this little book. Maybe I should, too.” I’m sure that’s what they would say.
I guess I should mention what my books is about for all of you who may stumble upon this post. My book is a memoir about my childhood and how I was just a little bit off center. Most of my blog posts are in the book, changed or tweaked in one way or another. The book has 44 chapters and I curse a lot, which I really don’t mean to do, but those damn nuns that I write about are to blame. They really are.
Anyway, like I said, I don’t know what I am supposed to do right now. I guess I should walk around the place and see what other “authors” are doing to promote their book. I’d rather just sit and take a deep breath, and rest a while. It’s just too damn hot.
Update: It’s the morning after publishing, and I made a top 100 list already! Yehaw! #70 in Kindle Store-ebooks-Humor-Essays. And, the book is on the Humor-Essay page as a “Hot New Release.” I don’t know how long it will stay there, but I’m a happy camper.
When I was young I watched a program on tv about Sasquatch. Scared the hell out of me. Of course, this program talked about the Canadian hairy guy, so I didn’t think that he could cross the border and head south to find me in West Virginia. But, I had questions for my mom, nontheless. She was, afterall, from Sasquatch country. She was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. Sasquatch was right across the border.
“Vickie, Sasquatch is in Washington and Oregon too……….people out in Northern California have been calling him Bigfoot………Well, they have a name for him all over the world…….”
Say what? Bigfoot could be in my backyard? This was not good.
It was bad enough that I watched that tv program, but the next year, 1967 I believe, a guy by the name of Patteson had evidence. I sat with my eyes glued to the tv set as a home movie camera recorded Sasquatch walking in the woods. Dear God, he is real! And he crossed the freaking border. I was eleven years old and impressionable.
This was not good, especially when a neighborhood cat suddenly disappeared one night. I immediately blamed it on Sasquatch. He supposedly smelled like rotten eggs and had a howl that could put chills down your spine. So, of course I heard the blood curdling scream the very next night. I rushed into my parent’s bedroom.
“…….Vickie, what are you doing up? It’s past midnight……………………You did not hear Sasquatch………Vickie, I am not getting up……………….Vickie, no I do not smell rotten eggs………..He couldn’t make it to West Virginia that fast…………He is probably in Montana……besides, he can’t cross bridges………………….because he is afraid of bridges.”
I went back to bed but heard Sasquatch seven more times. I cracked my bedroom window so I would be sure to hear him if he was in the neighborhood.
“Vickie, I don’t want to see your window opened at night again. Do I make myself clear?”
Well, hell, I won’t be able to hear him coming then. “Can Sasquatch disappear like the Indians believe?” Hey, I asked my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity. She told me a few Indian beliefs.
My mom nodded her head, lighting up a cigarette, amused by something. She laughed, “Vickie, your eyes are darting back and forth so fast. Stop it.”
My mom had neglected to mention that my Uncle Don, her brother, had seen a Sasquatch when they were little and he was fishing with some friends out in the wilds of Washington state. That meant Sasquatch was an old Sasquatch then. I felt relaxed.
“The Indians believe that Sasquatch appears and disappears and that’s why no one can catch one of them.”
Ok, shit, my mom just said, “them,” like there is more than one of them. This can not be good.
Sightings of Bigfoot in USA based on information from the BFRO Geographical Database of Bigfoot/Sasquatch Sightings & Reports (accessed 2009-04-08). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Well, since we only had three television stations and the internet wasn’t invented yet, I didn’t have a way to keep tabs on the big guy. I was obsessed for maybe a week and then I moved on to something else. But, Sasquatch was kept on file in my head.
So, when I had children and Al Gore finally invented the internet, one of the first thing I searched for was “Sasquatch.” Well, the very first thing I searched for was wooly worms. I know, I’m a strange bird. But, the internet put me in touch with a data base that included sightings of the hairy ape man. There were thousands of sightings. If the internet was around when I was ten or eleven, I would have had a child ulcer. I was worried about one old Sasquatch in the Pacific Northwest when there was a sighting in Pocahontas County in West Virginia when I was six. Thank God I didn’t know about it.
So, when my daughter had to make a Social Studies project for school and she really didn’t want to do it, I gave her a suggestion; “How about Bigfoot?” She didn’t care so I started finding information for her. I emailed a Bigfoot expert in Montana by the name of Dr. Jeff Meldrum and he responded to her. I chuckle when I see him being interviewed on almost every Bigfoot documentary ever made since that time.
Alex won the school’s Social Studies fair and went on to the county fair and won first place. We then drove down to Charleston, our state capitol for the state competition. That was fun….for me. I was like a Social Studies stage mom. Alex did not care at all. But, I did. I put a lot of time and energy into her project. She even had a large map with pins indicated where there were Bigfoot sightings. She had a tape recorder to let the judges hear a Bigfoot scream. We made a model cast of a Bigfoot’s footprint. She was ready and I won Honorable Mention. I mean, she won Honorable Mention. Big foot scored.
I am still a fan of the hairy creature. Do I believe in Bigfoot? Absolutely. I saw one in the McDonald’s parking lot one night, so I know he is real. I took this picture of him. Or I could be lying.
I woke up tired this morning. Oh, not just tired, but tired tired. I didn’t go to bed too horribly late. So, it had to be the phone dream I had all night long that has made me so tired. Why can’t a person just go to sleep and then wake up hours later, feeling refreshed and ready for a new day? No. Not me. I have to dream all freaking night about the strangest things on the planet. Sometimes I wake up to a racing heart. I’m going to die in my sleep sometime, I am sure. And it is not monsters chasing me or Ann Coulter talking to me or anything really frightening like that. It’s toilets, or college classes or stolen purses that occupy my dream land. Figures.
There are several dream scenarios that I seem to have. The first are the dreaded, “I have to pee” dreams. I am dreaming that I have to use the bathroom, but good luck finding one that actually works. One time I did find one, but it was right in the middle of a room where people were hanging out, talking. Another time it had water all the way up to the rim of the toilet. And yet one night I found one, but it had a rat sitting in the corner, just staring at me. The toilet was there, and I had to pee. Well, how bad did I need to go to the bathroom? I could go on and on with the “I have to pee dreams.” And when I wake up, I really have to pee. I’m sure that’s why I have those dreams. Why can’t I just freaking sleep like you are supposed to?
It’s always something that prevents me…
I thought it was bad enough to have dreams where I thought I was still in college. Well, except in these dreams, I have forgotten that I have had a particular class all semester that I just forgot to go to for some reason. I can’t find my schedule and there’s a final coming up. I’m embarrassed to go to the class because, well, I haven’t been there all damn semester. Sometimes the whole dream begins with trying to find a parking spot and then looking for a particular building that a class is in. I have those dreams about once a month. Those dreams just suck.
Is my class in this building? Where the hell am I?
In my phone dreams, someone has stolen my purse. Now, if you know me at all, you will know that I am completely OCD about the whereabouts of my purse. If I go to a party at someone’s house, I just can’t leave my purse on the host’s bed. That would just ruin my night, worrying that someone was going to steal it. Of course, none of the people at that party would ever dream of stealing their friend’s purse, but I don’t know. Maybe I just can’t be separated from all my important items.
In my phone dreams, like the one I had last night, I first can’t find my purse. For some God forsaken reason, I have left it unattended somewhere. Last night someone found it sitting on the floor in a hallway somewhere. Just because I found it, doesn’t mean that it is intact. So, I look inside, and find everything missing. Everything. This is probably where my eyes start darting around in my sleep because I have pretty bad eye strain this morning. Stupid phone dream.
After I realize that some really bad person has stolen every card in my wallet, but for some reason has left me the wallet, I try to call my credit card company first. Well, it won’t work. I don’t know why. So, I go to another one. It isn’t dialing the numbers correctly. I could go on and on, but it is always the same scenario. None of the damn phones are working. The black rotary is missing its stop, so it just goes around and around. When I press on another phone, letters show up on the screen instead of numbers. I’m just freaking tired.
Finally, probably hours into my dream, I tell myself that it is just a dream. I do this all of the time. Why I have to wait so long to push myself out of a dream is beyond me. But, dreams are ridiculous sometimes. I am sure that Lewis Carroll had a dream about Alice in Wonderland. It had to be a dream or the guy was on drugs. Or maybe he was very imaginative and I should give him some credit, but dreams are pretty wild.
I had planned on writing a really funny blog post this morning about some of my family vacations, but I can’t now. I’m just too damn tired.
Plus, I need to call and report that my visa card has been stolen and that may take a while. Wait……?
I just got back from taking my son to the Dulles airport. I wrote earlier that Adam was moving to Tbilisi, Georgia, which is pretty far from West Virginia. And he decided to take his cat, Atticus, with him.
This wasn’t an easy feat. First Adam had to make a flight arrangement with an airline carrier that would permit a cat on board as carry-on. I guess some frown on letting a mewing cat hang out under a seat. Turkish Airlines would let Atticus travel with them. But, hold on. They looked through the reservations, as they only permitted one cat or dog per flight. I guess that makes sense. I wouldn’t want to travel with five barking dogs on one flight. But, as my son pointed out, crying babies are just as bad. So true, Adam, and they don’t have to be put into a carrier and shoved under the seat. Not yet.
There are too many reports about animal deaths and loss after being checked as baggage. I would have let Atticus stay with me if Adam couldn’t keep him on the airplane. Most cargo compartments are kept unventilated. Delta Airlines doesn’t permit animals in the cargo area during the summer or winter months. Sometimes dogs or cats get loose somehow during transit. According to the U.S. Department of Transportation, 224 dogs were lost, injured, or killed during airline travel between 2005 and 2009. Airlines currently do not have to report the deaths, so that number could be much higher. So, checking Atticus as baggage was out of the question.
So, Adam was able to book a flight for he and his cat for June 19. Well, that was easy. Oh, but Adam had only started. There were so many procedures that Adam had to follow:
1. Quarantine or No Quarantine- Each country has a different protocol for pets entering their country. Adam had to first find out if Atticus would be warmly welcomed or thrown in the slammer for a certain amount of time. Adam found out that Georgia would welcome Atticus with no problem, whatsoever. But, he also had to make sure that since he had a layover in Turkey that Atticus would not be taken into custody and thrown into a Turkish kitty cat quarantine for a while. Adam had to have the vet examine Atticus, however, and sign the proper health certificate that he was a healthy cat. It was his passport, so to speak. He also had to have a USDA endorsement on the health certificate, I think.
2. Vaccinations and shit- While Atticus was at the vet’s office, he also had to have entry-required vaccinations that were quite expensive. I am sure one was the rabies vaccination and another may have been a feline shot. Throw in a prescription for kitty cat Xanax, and he was on his way.
3.. Pet carrier- Adam couldn’t just shove Atticus into the carrier that most people use. You know, the metal white carrier with the door and bars on the front.
Wrong one
No, Atticus had to have an expensive one that could be put under the seat on the plane.
Right one
I really liked the pet carrier Adam purchased. There was also a zippered compartment where he could put Atticus’s leash and Xanax..
4. I can not stress the Xanax enough. The vet wrote a prescription for Atticus. It was a “real people” Xanax that would calm Atticus down. Because, he had quite the adventure ahead. First of all, we had to travel by car for four house from West Virginia to Dulles Airport, outside of Washington, D.C. Adam told the vet that Atticus freaked out in the car just to get to the vet’s office. After the drive, there would be a 2 1/2 hour wait for his international flight. The fight was then twelve hours to Istanbul, Turkey. There was going to be a seven hour layover before boarding again for another 1 1/2 hour flight and then the drive to the university. So, yeah, Atticus needed to be knocked out, or at least given an anti-anxiety drug. Hell, I would need to be knocked out for an itinerary like that.
5. Pretty blue harness- Atticus could not wear just any collar. He would be able to slip right out of a collar. Some people have their pet microchipped. That probably would have been a good idea for Atticus. I don’t think he had any identification on his body whatsoever. That probably wasn’t a good idea.
5. Animal diapers- Oh yes, Atticus was going to have to wear a diaper. It was going to be a long day. Adam quit feeding him right before we left for the airport and gave him 1/2 of a Xanax right before we left.
Ok, so we were ready to head to Dulles. Atticus was given a Xanax and Adam put the blue harness on him. He had a hard time walking with it on, and I have no idea why. We put the kitty litter box in the far back of the car since we were going to let Atticus hang out inside the car. I was going to drive while Adam played baby sitter to his cat.
Well, he was fantastic. The Xanax just made him mellow out and he sat on Adam’s lap the entire trip, listening to music and letting the air conditioner hit his face. He really enjoyed the air. When we pulled into the parking lot, Adam put a diaper on him, which was hysterical, because Atticus just lay on his back and let Adam put the damn thing on him. There was a hole for his tail. It was too small, so I am sure it came off during the flight.
Adam put Atticus in the cat carrier and we were on our way into the airport. I left as soon as he checked in with his airline and he was headed to security.
I drove the four hours home and while I was driving, got a text from Adam. I pulled over to read it, and smiled. Adam had to take Atticus out of the carrier and lead him through the x-ray machine at the security check-point, diaper and all. I hope someone was amused. Adam said the cat was excellent.
Adam has arrived in Tbilisi and sent me a Facebook message that they got in safe and sound and that Atticus did great. Of course, I read where there were only two pieces waiting at the baggage claim for Adam, instead of three. I sure hope it isn’t lost forever.
Because it could have been the suitcase that had Atticus’s kitty litter box and food.
In the end, if your pet must travel with you, make sure he will be comfortable. There is no way that Atticus could have gotten through everything that he had to go through if he was not doped up. Just sayin.
You tore up my couch and terrorized my cat, but I’m going to miss you, you little shit.
Well, school is out and I have decided to work all summer on writing my first book, Jumping in Mud Puddles: A Memoir of a Picky, Hyper Big Fat Liar.
Something like this but not really
I have wanted to write a book ever since I first picked up a pen and wrote Ma and Pa Kettle stories a few weeks ago. Ok, kidding. I wrote all of the time when I was little. I’m pissed off at my mom that she didn’t realize that she was living with an Ernestine Hemingway at the time, as she never saved any of my creations.
I was forced to go to a private school when I was in first grade because I was stupid and didn’t pass the early entrance exam. I missed the November 1 cut off by several days. My mom wanted me to go to school, so I had to endure a few years of Sister Maria, that evil nun with sensible shoes. In third grade, I started writing stories about Sister Maria and wrote in a composition book. I don’t think it was a work of fiction. I think I may have been spying on her. I don’t remember specifics, but I have the book somewhere. I just don’t know where the somewhere is right now. But, she inspired the writer in me. I wrote about Ma and Pa after I was able to leave that horrid little convent school.
When I was in seventh grade, we had to bring in a simple fact every Friday in Science class: Facts on Friday. I think that’s what it is called. Miss Caldwell would go around the room and we had to read our fact. Most of the time we would just cut out the little filler facts from our hometown newspaper, the Weirton Daily Times. For example, one Friday I might bring in-
“Roger Smith, a carpenter from Dayton, Ohio, was struck by lightning three times at the same spot.”
Something like that. Ripley’s Believe It Or Not also had great facts that were slightly bizarre. So, after a few Fridays, my bestest friend Ramaine and I would sit down and make up our own facts. They were “retarded,” our favorite word in the late sixties/early seventies. We may have changed the above fact to read:
“Roger Smith, an electrician from Bombay, India, was struck by lightning at the same time he was turning on a light bulb three different times and lived to tell about it. The electricity was captured in his stomach and he now glows. He no long needs a light bulb.”
Our Friday facts became so popular that we became Friday fact writers. It was like our first writing job. Everyone wanted our facts or maybe we just passed them out on pieces of paper and the kids read them. We would crack up at some of them because they were just soo out there. I remember my weirdest one:
“In Bombay, India, two caterpillars. walking towards each other from opposite directions, met and crawled up each other and turned into a flower.”
I don’t know why we did this one, but there was a kid in our class named Joe, who we ended up writing about in most of our facts. He was a quiet kid who loved our facts, so we asked him if he would like to be in one of them, and it then sort of snowballed and turned into Facts on Friday with Joe or something like that:
“A woman in Bombay, India (we liked India and China facts for some reason) had twenty children in twenty years. Joe, the youngest, was retarded.”
Ok, remember it was around 1969 when I was in seventh grade. No one was politically correct back then. Anyway, we had a blast and continued to write strange facts. It just recently dawned on me that Miss Caldwell never called us out on those ridiculous facts because she wasn’t paying any attention. She was using that as a planning period, I just betcha.
I continued to write as I got older and was a feature writer for the Babbling Brooke, that riveting high school newspaper that grew in membership when both Ramaine and I jumped on board. Ok, maybe everyone in the school got the paper free, but you know, we made it worth reading.
I wrote an unflattering poem about Donny Osmond one time and we would make up horoscopes that were hysterical. Well, they were hysterical to us:
Scorpio- This will be the worst week of your life. Stay indoors and don’t drink the water.
Taurus- This will be the best week of your life. Go outdoors and drink lots of water.
Other times we would write a tv listing of the shows that were going to be on that week. The following is just something I made up right now, but similar to the “retarded” things we would write:
“The Brady Bunch Friday-8:00p.m.-Carole Brady decides to get her hair cut and lets her daughter, Cindy, cut it with pretend scissors. Carole is now wearing an ugly, shaggy hairstyle and Mr. Brady won’t sleep with her.”
One of the best times I had in high school was in typing class. Ramaine was in the class with me, so you know it can’t be just a normal typing class. We would arrive every morning, take the covers off of our typewriters, and start typing whatever assignment was on the board. Well, that is fine and dandy, but makes for a boring class. So, Ramaine and I began typing notes and would get to class early and put them under the covers of specific “victims.” One may have read, “Watch out. This typewriter is watching you.” Oh, the fun we would have. Sometimes we would put them under our covers so no one would suspect us. High school was just so awesome.
In college, I started writing ala Sylvia Plath- just- kill- me- now- poetry after my boyfriend, Rick, and I broke up. I still have those poems and they are actually quite good. I mean, if you want to die because life just sucks.
I was a Speech and Drama major and English minor, so I was still writing and acting and pretending to act throughout college. After I married and had children, I continued to write. I mostly researched a lot for a book of names I wanted to write. Not just any baby name book, but I would scour newspaper obituaries for old names, like Zella, or Bathsheba, or Candy and started collecting first names. I had more than 40,000 names. This is about the time I started drinking. Ok, kidding, not a drinker. But, I still have that mound of names somewhere. I know where that somewhere is. Maybe someday…
So, here I am, in my mid-fifties and I’m going to write a book. I’m not going to hunt for a literary agent and publisher. No, I’m going to take the short route and write an ebook and put it on Amazon for Kindle. I hope all of you will want to download it when it is finished. I really don’t care if I make money. I just want to one-up my ex husband. He just married a really pretty younger woman and all I have is a bad hair style and a 16 year old cat. So, I’m going for a best-seller and fame since I would rather put a needle in my eye before getting married again. Well, I would change my mind if Tim Matheson, my all time dream man would buy my book and then ask me to marry him. You all remember Tim from Animal House and the West Wing, right? Well, I love him. I really do.
The writing is shaky because he signed his picture for me on a subway in NYC. Or I am lying.
I have given myself until August 1 to finish the book and hope to have it on Amazon by September 1….of this year. I will do it. I will.
My dad was a remarkable man. At least I think so. He died in 1989 when his heart basically blew up. He was in his truck and managed to pull over where paramedics were called. And so was I. I rushed to his bedside, but I was two hours away and two hours late. No one met me at the hospital. But, that’s not the part I want to remember. I want to pay homage to a guy who adopted me when I was born, who taught me how to frame a great shot, who taught me how to fish, reluctantly.
He was also the guy who would quietly mow down my mom’s flowers after she bitched at him for something that really didn’t matter. She was a rolling pin woman. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He would also smile at her when he would go to leave the house. “Where are you going?” my mother would demand. “Up Mike’s ass to get a milkshake,” he would always reply. I just loved that guy.
Elwood Arthur Mendenhall was his name. It was a pretty goofy name, I thought. It was a bit weird that his first cousin was also named Elwood. I mean, what were those women thinking? Most of his close pals called him Mendy or Gomez, or Omar. But, for the most part, people called him Elwood. I just called him Dad.
The following is a reblog of one of my first blog posts that was originally published August, 2010. I thought that I would share it again since it is Father’s Day.
Miss you, Dad.
Love, Your Favorite Daughter, Vickie
~***~
What can you say about a guy who walks into the kitchen wearing a plaid shirt with striped shorts and socks with his sandals? “Well, (sounding just like Ronald Reagan), there is blue in the shirt and in the pants.” I would roll my eyes. “Dad, it doesn’t match. You can’t wear stripes with plaid. It is against the law in West Virginia. You have to wear a plain top with striped shorts.” He would smile and go back into his bedroom and come back out with a yellow shirt on, never mind that there was not a speck of yellow in the shorts. “Good job, Dad.”
Dad parading around
My dad was a realtor and wore suits every day. He usually kept his suit on in the evening. He was always dressed up when we were young. He had places to go and people to see. He belonged to every club you can imagine. I have all of his membership cards. He belonged to the American Legion, the Masons (shhhhh, double double secret club), The Elks, The Moose, the Photography Club, The Shriners, and many others. I think a couple of the clubs were suspect, like the Skunk Club. (I can’t even print what was on that card.) So, Dad was rarely home through the week. In the summer he was in a lot of parades because he was a clown with the Shriners. He even had a motorcycle with a sidecar for a while. We used to go to the Shrine Circus in Wheeling often. I loved to watch the Flying Wallenda’s. They were and are a family of famous circus performers who do daredevil, death-defying stunts high up in the air without a safety net. Even when I was young, I thought how foolish they were to not use a net. And I was not a bright child. They must be a family of nit-wits. Anyway, my dad wanted a make-up mirror for Christmas one year so he could put on his clown makeup. How many dads ask for a make-up mirror? Life was never boring with my dad.
When we were small, we weren’t supposed to answer the phone in the early evening because my dad received a lot of client calls. People were always wanting to see houses for sale in the evening. Dad had a cut-off for client calls. After 8:00pm, Dad would answer the phone, “Duffy’s Bar, Daffy Speaking”, all the time. We knew then, work was over for Dad.
I loved listening to my dad talk to people on the phone. He had no idea he was doing it, but he would talk exactly how the people on the line talked. We knew when he was talking to his Irish friend, because Dad had an Irish accent. We knew when he was talking to his friend, Jimmy, because he would curse. His Italian accent was so funny. So were the conversations when he would use poor English. “We was gonna go, but it started rainin….I ain’t goin. I’m too tard (tired).” He really had no idea he was doing this. I think that is a reason I love dialects so much and had a blast when I took a dialects class as part of my Speech degree in college.
Of course, when you are a teen-age girl, you are embarrassed to be seen with your parents. That’s a given. I don’t know why, but those couple of years before you are allowed to drive are miserable. So, my dad understood this, and took every opportunity to drive me crazy. One example, a Brooke High dance when I was a freshman. I think Ramaine’s mom took us and my dad was going to pick us up AFTER the dance. Not before it was over, Dad, but right when it is over. I wish I would have specified that, or lied about the time it was over. I am pretty sure I did. He always had an ornery, “Ok, Vickie” smile. Wild Cherry played at our school dance. Yeah, the famous Wild Cherry pre-Play that Funky Music group. They used to play at pool dances and school dances often. Anywho, about 20 minutes before the dance was over, a member of the band spoke over the microphone and said, “Vickie Mendenhall, your Daddddddy is here to take you home” and then they put a damn spotlight over by the door and my dad was standing there, waving like Forrest Gump. That one ranked.
A favorite thing that my dad loved to do was call me back when I was walking down the street to Ramaine’s house. I’m not sure, but I think there were like 9 houses that separated our homes. “Vickie, come here,” he would wave me back. I’d get right in front of him and he would simply say, “See how far you would have been if I hadn’t called you back?” After many times, (he was always so believable that maybe this time he really needed me..) of falling for his little prank, I just kept walking back just so he could get one over on me. I knew as I got older, that he was not happy with my mom. How could you be? He got yelled at for just looking at her wrong.
When I was a freshman in college, my dad had a bad heart attack. I guess any heart attack is bad. He had to have a triple heart by-pass. Freshman weren’t allowed to have cars at my college, unless there was a pretty good reason. I got to keep my car because of all of the traveling home. So, I thought I was pretty special. My dad was in a hospital in Pittsburgh. The doctor’s said it was such a success because the veins in his legs were very strong. He played tennis in high school and was pretty athletic, so that was good. They hadn’t done very many triple heart bypasses at that time, but they thought he would make it through. It also helped that an elderly Italian looking lady dressed in black walked up to my mother and said that she prayed for those who entered into surgery that day and that “your husband will be the only one that will survive.” And then, she turned around and walked back to where she was sitting. Well, hell, that meant that the person she was waiting for was going to die? Good grief, rosary-clutched woman. What are you??? But, she was right. Or so my mom said. I had to go back and forth to college. My mom got to know the people who were on the same floor with my dad.
Well, the “Let’s embarrass Vickie” era continued. I briefly dated a guy in college named Tommy, and we had planned to drive to Pittsburgh to watch Pitt and Notre Dame play football. My parents invited us to stop by and eat before the game. So, of course, while we were sitting at the table, my dad, blurted out, “So, Tommy, I had open heart surgery,” and proceeded to unbutton his shirt, pulled up his t-shirt, and exposed his heavily bubbled scar. ”See.” Yeah, we see it, Dad. I was ready to slide under the table, with the dog. He really was proud of that scar. At least the day wasn’t a total wash. We saw Joe DiMaggio in a crowd outside the stadium and I stepped on his foot by mistake when I went to stand beside him for a picture. “Um….sorry, Joe….. 1…2….3…. Say Cheese.” Well, not many people can say they stepped on Joe DiMaggio’s foot. I can. I’m quite special. Come to think of it, I don’t think either one of us had a camera. I really think we both just went and stood on either side of him, smiling, like someone was going to take our picture.
After open heart surgery, Dad had a pace maker and had to make a phone call weekly and put the phone to his chest. Gotta love the technology of the 70′s. Well, the years flew by. I got married, and was lucky to have my dad walk me down the aisle. I stayed in Fairmont and had 2 children he got to meet and hang out with for a short while.
My wedding, October 1983
My dad had a boat load of pills he had to take. He had one of those pill compartment thingys (that I now have), but he still forgot to take some of his medication. My mom said he was getting mean, and with one swoop kicked my brother and my dad out of the house. Or, maybe my brother left on his own before that. So, my dad, ill as he was, packed up some stuff in his truck and left the house and stayed with David. My mom and sister were alone at the house.
On November 5, 1989, I was called to come home as soon as I could. My dad had a massive heart attack while driving his truck and was in the hospital. I hurried and packed, kissed 4-year old Adam and 2 year old Alex and drove like an idiot on the 2 hour journey home. (I didn’t leave them alone, just in case you were wondering.) Three weird things happened to me on my way home. It was an overcast day, and I was amazed how the clouds opened up and the light shined through like a flashlight beam. It was beautiful. For some reason it made me cry. The second thing was when a red-tailed hawk flew right in front of my car like it was crossing the interstate, and then went up in the air into a tree. I had never seen one so close. The third was eerie. I passed a hearse that was driving slow and I looked over, and the guy gave me a sad, sad, smile. It was like he knew I was on a sad trip.
When I reached the hospital, noone was there. I mean, no one. A nurse had to take me aside and tell me that my father had passed away. I asked what time he died, so she went to his chart and when she told me, I burst into tears. It was the same time that the hawk had flown by my car. I had noted the time of each of the three weird incidents in my mind, because I believe in that shit.
I was soo upset that no one stayed at the hospital to wait for me to arrive. It would be just like my mom to just drive home and forget about me. When I first entered the driveway and got out of the car, my brother was there. We hugged, crying, and I said into his ear, “She killed him.” And that is how I have felt to this very day.
We buried my dad on my birthday. That sucked. It was a cold November day and he had Masonic last rites or whatever they call it at the grave site. I felt like I was watching an episode of the Flintstones and a meeting of the Water Buffaloes. And dad was the Grand Poobah. They did this hand shake stuff that made me giggle, and then the next thing you know, I was silent laugh shaking. My dad would have expected me to laugh, so I did.
My mom informed me that she had no intention of visiting my dad’s grave. “I believe that if people aren’t nice while they are living, why visit them when they are dead.” I think that she may have been talking about my grandfather, because he didn’t like my mom. I also think she is confused. Dad was a great person. Sure he gagged when he saw a hair in the bathroom sink all the time. Sure, he put on a yellow raincoat when he gave the dog a bath. Sure he always offered us a quarter if we could eat a sour pickle without making a face. And wearing those socks with his sandals was unbearable to look at as a teen age girl. But, he is now in peace. Only his name is on the headstone. Good job, Dad! He is next to my grandpa and Grandma, and no room for my mother. Maybe he knew that witches don’t die. Karma, Momma, Karma.
We built our house on 13 acres and my husband cut the grass with an old 1949 Farm All Cub that my dad gave him. I am telling you the truth when I say that the first time Jay cut the grass on that tractor (it had a stupid smiley face on the front that my dad put on years before), I had gone down to take him a drink of water, and I heard this “Caw” and looked up and there was a red-tailed hawk flying in a circle above us. I smiled for hours afterwards.
I sure loved my dad. When I see an old hoot wearing socks with his sandals, I realize that teenage girls waste an awful lot of time being embarrassed by their fathers.
I really loved being in high school during the 1970′s. It was a great time. I went to Brooke High School in Wellsburg, West Virginia. The school had a large population for our area, so the school was divided into four smaller schools under one roof. They were called centers. I was in center 4.
There were many clubs and activities one could join at Brooke High School. Some of them included Future Teachers of America, Student Council, Ski Club, Chemistry Club and Spanish Club just to name a few. I tried to be active and joined a lot of clubs, but none were as fun as the Drama Club. And it was when I was in the Drama Club that I decided to try out for a play.
To tell you the truth, I can’t remember what the hell part I tried out for. The play, Up the Down Staircase, was made from a best-selling book about an inner city high school English teacher.
I just remember that it was a large cast. I did play one of the high school students, but that is all I can remember about the part. And I don’t remember the cast party that was held after the play ran its course, because, um, someone spiked the punch.
I was a sophmore in high school at the time of my very first night of punch drinking. The cast party was held at the home of one of the girls who was in the play. Glenda also happened to be a relative of some sort. She was a senior at Brooke High and was two years older than me. When doing some genealogy work this past year, I was finally able to see how one of the branches in our family tree swung over to her family. I guess we were cousins, after all. I don’t remember ever talking to her.
Since I was only fifteen at the time, I wasn’t a driver. And to tell you the truth, I have no idea who dropped me off at the party or if our parents did the drop off and pick up routine. All I know for sure is that I don’t know much about that evening. I got there, I drank a bunch of glasses of the best punch in the whole world, and the next thing you know I’m at home, unloading the dishwasher while my head is pounding.
I guess I was having so much fun that I told my friend I came with that I had another ride home and that I was going to stay a bit later. That part was true, I guess. I was having fun. I have no idea if I had another ride home or not.
The only visual that I can remember is a large punch bowl sitting on what appeared to be a pool table that was covered with a huge table cloth or sheet. The punch had floating ice in it and it was a pinkish color. There was food on plates on the pool table, and that’s where we all hung out. The food was delicious, and director of the play was happy because everyone who attended the play was giving great compliments. Well, they had to, most of the people who attended the play were our parents and grandparents. Bravo.
Well, I was eating and drinking and having a good old time. I didn’t know that someone had spiked the punch. I was lucky if I only weighed 90 pounds at the time, so I didn’t have much meat on my bones. So, I imagine just one glass of the stuff would have knocked me down. I was told that I had at least three, because I kept telling people how great it tasted. Oh, there had to be a sinsiter high school boy who was snickering right about now.
Now, I have to admit that it is a bit strange to write about something that you don’t remember. That would make for a very short story. But, my mom was able to fill in most of the hazy memories of that night. And she reminded me of it for days, weeks, and months after wards. I guess I was the life of the party.
I still don’t remember who drove me home that night, but my mom was standing at the door with her hands on her hips. I vaguely remember that, but I have no idea who drove me home, other than it was a car load full of people. A guy and his girlfriend were in the front seat, and I am pretty sure I kissed a guy that I was sitting in the backseat with right before I got out of the car. I don’t know for sure. I was a tramp. Or I was going to be a tramp. My mom used that word a lot after that night.
I have to depend on my mom about the rest of the night. I guess I gave her a big hug when I finally made it to the top of the outside steps that led to the front door. The kids in the car couldn’t get away fast enough. I guess my mom was furious, but I was too happy to notice that. My mom said that I kept hugging her and telling her what a great time I had and how they had the BEST dog in the world. My mom said it was useless to reprimand me that night because I was, as she repeated over and over and over again, “Two sheets to the wind.” I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I had a feeling that my mom was drunk that night, because what the hell did a couple of sheets in the wind have anything to do with the fabulous cast party?
Ok, so no, she wasn’t drinking. I guess I was the one who had been drinking. I wish someone would have told me that. My mom said that I could not quit laughing and I was talking a mile a minute, ALL about what a great job I did in the play, sitting there in the “classroom,” remembering my lines and delivering them loud and clear. I was a great actress. She said that I was messing with my little sister, who I shared a room with. My parents were in the process of remodeling the basement and adding a bedroom down there for me. I guess this was one of the last nights that I would be spending with her and I just had to tell her what a fantastic sister she has been to me.
I guess my mom was so pissed at me that she just guided me to my room and that was about all. She said that I took down the covers on my bed, and plopped myself in my bed to go to sleep. I guess I then remembered that I was still wearing my clothes. I guess one shouldn’t go to sleep in their jeans and flip flops. I was still talking and laughing when the first flip flop came flying at my mom. I was still having so much fun. The other flip flop hit her in the leg. I guess I thought that was the funniest thing in the world. The last thing my mom saw before she said, “Good-night, Vickie,” and turned off my lights, was me taking off my jeans and swinging them in the air. When she checked on me ten minutes later, she said I had one foot on the floor and was out cold.
I DO remember my mom coming into my room the next morning at 7:30.
“Vickie, get up. I need you to take the dishes out of the dishwasher.” I opened my eyes, but that’s all I could do. My head was pounding. Wow, I must have the flu or something. I sat up slowly, and my mom was just standing at the doorway, staring at me. What? Why was she staring at me? I was getting up. I looked down and there was a pair of jeans lying on my chest. I was wearing a top and not pajamas.
“Vickie, did you have any idea that the punch you were drinking was spiked with booze last night?” My mom looked at me and told me that if I did that again I would end up being a ”lady of ill repute.” What? First of all, mom, I have a freaking headache the size of a….large guinea pig. That’s what I told her. A guinea pig. Ok. Second of all, I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me to get up and unload the newly fixed dishwasher.
I got up and tried to put the jeans on that were lying on my bed. “Don’t put those back on Vickie. I think you vomited on them.” What? I didn’t vomit. I went to a cast party and came home and went to bed. And all of a sudden I was being called a lady of ill repute and a vomiter. The rest of the weekend was just going to suck.
Well, I finally got to my bedroom door, tripped over some flip flops that my sister was stupid enough to leave in the hallway, and made it to the kitchen. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, wearing a huge smile. ” Good morning, Drunky.” He burst out laughing. What?
I guess my mom didn’t really want me to get up that early to unload the dishwasher. She wanted to put me under the light and question me like the police do on those police shows. I was so confused. My brain was not wanting to work. She hounded me and asked me a million questions:
”Who brought the booze for the punch?” What booze?
”Who drove you home and who did you kiss in the backseat?” What? I kissed someone?
“What are their phone numbers?” Who? I don’t know who drove me home. Wait. I kissed someone?
The questions did not stop. My mom had called my cousin’s mother who hosted the cast party and she repeatedly told my mother that she and her husband and a few other adults chaperoned the cast party and she had no idea that the punch was spiked. She said no one was drunk. No one. My mom didn’t believe her.
“….and she said no one was drunk or acting drunk. But when you got home, Vickie, you kissed whoever you were sitting with in the back seat as you got out of the car and you were swinging your jeans. You were as drunk as a skunk.” God, settle down, Mom. Besides, when have you EVER seen a skunk that was drunk. I mean, really. Who is the drunk one here?
Well, my mom finally was able to recreate the whole evening because I think she talked to everyone who was there. Everyone. I was grounded until I was thirty. Or until I went to her the next night.
“Mom, I didn’t get drunk on purpose. Someone spiked the punch and I found out from Cindy that I was with her most of the night and I only had two glasses of punch.” My mom ungrounded me.
I can’t look at a punch bowl without thinking it should only be for a spiked beverage. That cast party was a great time.
These must be those ladies of ill repute my mom was talking about.
I was the pickiest child in the whole world. And if I didn’t want to eat something, there was nothing my mother could do to get me to eat it. It wasn’t going to happen. You could plop a new puppy with a big pink bow around its neck in front of me as a bribe, but I still wouldn’t eat those damn peas. I could sit in my chair for hours to no avail. I wasn’t stubborn. But, I felt that if I didn’t want to chew and swallow disgusting peas, I shouldn’t have to. You eat them.
So, it was not pleasant sitting at the Mendenhall dinner table when I was very young. Our dinner conversations usually centered around my not eating.
“Eat your carrots, Vickie……. They are good for you……..Vickie, are you listening?…….Eat your carrots, Vickie….. Don’t wrinkle your nose up like that to me…. It will freeze and you will have wrinkles on your nose like that forever……Vickie, why are you smelling the carrots? …………No, they don’t smell funny……..They are cooked carrots…….They are from a can………No, they are not old……….Because there is a date on the can………….Vickie…..Eat your carrots……….How do you know you don’t like cooked carrots? You’ve never tasted cooked carrots before…..What?…..Bugs Bunny is not real, Vickie….No, I have never seen rabbits eat cooked carrots……..You are not a rabbit, Vickie….People eat cooked carrots….Yes, Vickie……..kids are people…….What? No, Vickie, you cannot have a rabbit……. Ok, you know what? I’ve had enough…Go to your room…………..No, you cannot have a twinkie.”
Every night it was the same thing. I don’t understand why my mother just didn’t leave me alone. I wasn’t going to starve. As long as I had bread, jelly, peanut butter, and pumpkin pie, life was grand. Of course there were other foods I would eat, but dear God, do not spread peanut butter with the jelly on the bread. That is abnormal and I would not touch it.
It was twice as bad when I was old enough to start school. The nuns at Immaculate Heart of Crazy Nuns Academy would not leave me the hell alone. It was a constant barrage of inspirational messages directed at me to make me feel bad and eat. Stupid nuns. You can’t fool me. I’m unfoolable.
“And so why are you not eating all of the food on your plate, young lady?” Here we go. She was standing beside my tray, hands on hips. I don’t know why people stand with their hands on their hips. It didn’t scare me. It reminded me of getting ready to sing, “I’m a Little Teapot.” I just hated those damn nuns anyways. I did not want to be at that private school. And I don’t know why they kept referring to it as a private school. All my friends knew about it. I looked up and answered the creepy lady clad in black and white.
“I’m eating.” I looked at her. I couldn’t even fake a smile. And she didn’t scare me at all. Nuns were like clowns. They both wore goofy clothes and just weren’t funny.
“You need to clean your plate, Miss Mendenhall. Think of all of the starving children in Biafra.”
Shit. I mean, I am sorry about the starving kids in Biafra. And the ones in India. And the children who are freezing AND hungry in Outer Mongolia and Siberia. What the hell did that have to do with me not eating peas in Wintersville, Ohio? I was tired of this bullshit at school and at home. You know what? I didn’t give a rat’s ass about all the starving kids in the world. I was eight years old. Get the fuck off of my tiny back.
It was at that moment, in third grade, that I decided to start hiding my food.
After I got home from school, I decided to have a conference with myself about how I was going to hide my food at school, starting the next day. But, I had to get through the dinner routine at my house first. My mother started at me again. Shit. We were having peas. I really thought she was doing this to me on purpose. Lady, I am not going to eat peas. Not going to happen.
“Vickie, eat your dinner……………peas are good for you……….yes they are…………they are not mushy………..Vickie, eat your dinner…….I don’t know why they aren’t orange like carrots……It doesn’t matter, eat your dinner…………..Vickie, quit lining the peas up on your knife………..Ok, they are all over the floor now……Vickie, the dog is nowhere near you. She did not bump into you. You had them on your knife…….Because I have been watching you not eat your dinner……….Vickie, you are going to sit there until all those peas are gone, do you understand me? If they are not gone, you will not be allowed to go to your Blue Bird meeting this evening.”
Oh, I was going to go to my bluebird meeting. I hid my peas in my glass of milk. I drank most of the milk, and then dropped peas down in the milk. I was surprised how many peas could hide in milk. I smashed some of them on my plate because my mother would become suspect if there were no peas left on the plate. I figure she would still let me go to my blue bird meeting if she saw that I gave it a good old college try. I put three peas on David’s plate while he was talking. Cheryl and my dad also got three. I was a damn good pea sneaker.
And that’s how my food hiding career began.
The next day at school, we had salisbury steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. I remember this because of the incident. Well, there was no way I was going to eat any of this bullshit. Salisbury steak was shit on a stick to me. I despised green beans just as much as I hated peas. I did like mashed potatoes immensely. But, and there was always a “but” with me, if they had lumps in them, I would gag until my eyes watered. So, at most, it was an iffy meal.
First, I asked my lunch table friends if they wanted my salisbury steak. I had to work fast as the lunch Nazi was on her rounds. I thought that I would at least think of the Biafran kids and try to give my food away before I hid it. The boy across the table had already devoured half of his shit on a stick. He said he would take mine. I picked it up with the fork and sort of whipped it toward him. It landed on his plate. This was going to be fun. No one really wanted my green beans, so, I put some of them in my napkin, left some on the plate, and put the others under my tray. Well, just until she walked by. My plan was to retrieve the green beans after the nun lady walked by.
My Operation Hide Yucky Food was working. My mashed potatoes didn’t have any lumps, so I was able to eat that with no problem. Just in time, too, because here came Sister Potato Head.
“Well, well, well. Look at this. Miss Mendenhall, you did a pretty good job today. I am surprised. Go ahead and take your tray up to dump.”
Uh oh. I just sat there. I had at least six green beans smashed underneath my tray. I wasn’t ready to take my tray up until I hid more in another napkin. But, I made the mistake of having everything done by the time she came by, so there was no dilly-dallying during lunch time.
I stood up, picked up my tray and walked slowly to the dumping grounds. Sister Stupid Face was busy talking to others at my table and wasn’t watching the green beans peel off the bottom of my tray and fall to the ground while I was walking. I almost made it there when I heard a big black and white thud. I didn’t even need to turn around. I knew what happened. Sister Goof Ball Head slipped on my green beans and wiped out on the floor. I turned around, expecting to see her shoot me with the gun I was sure all nuns hid under their black dress, when I saw a boy from another table, lying on the floor.
The gun-toting nun was helping Jacob get up and yelling at him at the same time. “If you would have finished your green beans, they would not have been able to fall off of your plate as you were rushing to dump your tray. Get up. You’re ok.”
So much for hiding food. As I walked back from taking my tray to the cooks, I kicked each green bean out of the way. I had made a straight line of dropped green beans on the floor. I escaped certain death this time. I would remember never to hide food under my tray again.
In the end, I was able to become quite creative with my food hiding both at home and at school. It helped that I had a dog who was discreet while sitting beside me at dinner. I just talked louder when we had dinner that required the dog to slurp.
As summer approaches, I try to come up with a travel plan. Last year, I went to New York City twice and Cancun, Mexico. This summer, I am reminded of the great Dorothy Gale quote from the Wizard of Oz:
“…and if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard.”
Dorothy was a smart girl. I think I will follow her advice. I think I will braid my hair, grab a dog and a little picnic basket purse. and travel around my home state of West Virginia.
It’s funny how people live close to something so wonderful but don’t even notice it’s there. I’m guilty of that. I live close to Prickett’s Fort State Park and hate to say that the last time I had been there was about fifteen years ago when we took our children there. So, I went there a few weekends ago to take pictures with my new camera.
Prickett’s Fort is about ten minutes from my home. I should be slapped. On approach, the first thing I came upon was a creek full of Canadian geese and three honking white geese.
The atmosphere of the creek (I pronounce it crik, because that’s how we talk in Weirton), made me feel calm and mellow. The area is stocked with picnic tables for those who want to picnic with about twenty pooping Canuck ducks. It’s not so bad further away from the geese. I hung out there for awhile, talking to the geese and just taking in the beauty of the area. This was fun. I was by myself, but that doesn’t equate loneliness at all. It was fun. After about ten minutes, I hopped in my car and headed to the state park. But, wait, on my right was a very old cemetery begging me to visit. So, I did.
The Prickett’s Fort Cemetery is an old one indeed. The Prickett family is buried here. The founder of Morgantown, a fellow by the name of Morgan, is buried here too. Morgan Morgan was supposedly the first inhabitant in what is now known as West Virginia. This guy had to be a relative, but I am just way too lazy to research that right now. But, the cemetery was a bit eery, even in the morning.
I then pulled into the parking lot of Prickett’s Fort. The visitor Center is really nice and since I am fifty-five, got a discount on my entrance fee. There is also a museum and nifty time line of the fort upstairs. On the right of the visitor’s center is a bathroom and amphlitheather where plays are performed. The following are pictures I took of the fort and fort area.
The inside of the fort
I won’t go into detail about the fort, but it was used by the Prickett family as their primary home. They have a wonderful website that explains all that is Prickett’s Fort. When word that Indians were in the area hunting, neighbors would quickly ride to the fort and stay with the Prickett family. If you happen to visit this lovely park, you will meet people dressed in period clothing, and watch them work at their craft.
But, what is great about Prickett’s Fort State Park is that it is also a great place to park your car and head to the Rails to Trails on foot or on your bike. Many people use this popular trail, known as the Mon River Trail.
And if you don’t feel like walking or riding your bike, then bring down your boat and enjoy the Monongahela River.
I had a great morning at Prickett’s Fort State Park. And it is in my own backyard. Yes, sometimes the grass is greener on the other side of the fence and you need to travel and explore what lies beyond your local boundaries. But, if you don’t have that wanderlust and want to stay nearby, just look around you. You maybe be surprised at the sights that are in your own backyard.
My grandma Orpha had chicken scratch handwriting. Well, that’s what my mom called it.
“I can’t read this recipe…Crazy chicken scratch.”
I didn’t know what that really meant at the time. My mom was always speaking in tongue. I visualized a chicken scratching in the dirt on a farm. So, I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. The only thing I cared about was getting my hands on those molasses cookies. If my mom didn’t know how to read, I was going to have to settle for Nilla wafers. Life was so unfair.
It wasn’t until I was older that I really took a look at my grandmother’s penmanship. It really sucked. It looked like she wrote a recipe down on an index card while she was riding on a roller coaster. And that visual made me laugh out loud. Grandma on a roller coaster. Writing down a recipe. I still have the recipe for “rheumatism medicine” which included whiskey. Yeah, grandma would so ride on a roller coaster.
I really tried to have nice penmanship when I was little. I really did. But, it was ugly. I know that because Sister Maria told me so.
“Vickie, that’s a very ugly capital V. You would think it would be pretty since it begins your first name.”
I really really hoped that she would trip over that outfit she wore every day. I hated going to that private school. The Immaculate Heart of Mary Academy just ruined my attempts at pretty penmanship. The letter “V” can not be pretty. It is just not pretty. An “L” is a pretty letter.
I was happy when I was able to transfer to public school. But, Miss Emler wasn’t much better. She told me all of my letters were made correctly, but they weren’t pretty. Come on, people. I’m a teacher, and I would never tell a student their handwriting was not pretty. I tell them it sucks. Ok, just kidding.
Plus, my bestest friend, Ramaine, had the prettiest handwriting in the whole world. It was, and still is, beautiful. Her dad was an artist, and she inherited his wonderful artistic genes. If ever I write a children’s book, I would want her to be my illustrator.
So, yeah, I never won a penmanship award or medal. And as I grew older, I realized that my handwriting was ugly. It was boring and ugly. So, I doodled in high school, making fancy letters in the margins of my papers. I was practicing, perfecting the art of ugly penmanship.
Years passed and when it was time to get married, I decided to address all of my invitations in calligraphy. Yep. I bought a calligraphy pen and learned how to print fancy-like. There were 350 people invited to the wedding, and I don’t remember how many envelopes I addressed.
Sister Maria, who art in heaven by this time, wasn’t invited. I should have sent one to the convent so the other old nuns who were still there would marvel over how little Vickie turned out ok, handwriting wise.
So, yeah, my handwriting growth was stunted because of a nun’s opinion. What the hell do nuns know anyways? Who said they should be teachers?
That would be like ….letting a jockey be a veterinarian.
In the end, it is not going to matter one damn bit. Technology is going to take away our last bit of handwriting practice: check writing. In a few years we will all have a microchip imbeded in our left wrist and we will just scan ourselves at the local Walmart. We won’t have to write anymore.
Unless you want to copy down my grandma’s rheumatism medicine recipe.
When I was little, my dad used to take me fishing at the Paris Sportsmen Club. I actually hated the whole process of fishing, but felt I should be there to talk my dad and brother into releasing the poor little fish after catching them. It was bad enough they had a hook in their mouth. I just didn’t get it. I guess if you liked the taste of fish and your mom fried them up upon arrival, that is one thing. But, to catch fish for sport? I thought that was stupid.
I worried about the hooked fish. It had to hurt them. If I was hooked in the mouth, I would be screaming. I would still be screaming about it, forty some years later. I just knew that fish had feelings and shouldn’t be hooked in the mouth, dragged to shore, and then shoved into a bag like thingy until they died from being out of the water too long. Where is PETA when you need them?
But, after I realized that my dad was a real fisherman, there was no talking to him. He went fishing all the way up to Canada. North Bay, and more specifically, Lake Nipissing. That name cracked me up when I was little. I still laugh at how I laughed. But, if there was a place to throw a pole in the water, he was there. He went fishing under the Freedom Way bridge that led from our Weirton to Steubenville, Ohio, home of Dean Martin. I would go fishing there with him a lot. He caught a lot of fish there and would put them on a chain like thingy and let them flop around in the water while he caught more. One time I pulled the rod out of the muck and they all floated down the river. Oops. Fish on a chain.
Now, the Paris Sportsmen Club was just a little bit creepy for me. Creepy in that there were high weeds here and there surrounding the pond. Someone needed to pull on some rubbery wading pants and go pull some weeds. Cattails were immense. But, among the weeds and cattails were unseen creatures, I feared. Bullfrogs used to scare me to death. And I saw a snake swim by one time. Of course, I told my mom he crawled beside me while I sat on the bank. I was such a little story teller.
But, above every thing else, I was the most wary of the flying machines. You know, dragonflies.
Dragonflies at the Paris Sportsmen Club were evil. I swear one chased me on purpose. I would run one way and it would fly across the pond and head me off at the path. Ok, well, maybe there were more than one and they were just flitting around, but I didn’t see it that way. Their intent was to sting the shit out of me. They approached me like helicopters hovering over the Viet Cong and the rice paddies. Ok, I’m using my imagination. Also, the club was on Devil’s Den Road. What’s that tell ya?
I never really understood their purpose, but I watched them enough to know that they seemed to rule the roost. Birds eat worms. Snakes went after baby frogs. Who the hell wants to mess with a dragonfly? Dragon fly. I liked the name, but it evoked fear. Could it spit fire at me while it chased across the moors? Yes, I’m in Great Expectations and I’m Pip. Run, Pip, Run. I realize I had not heard of Great Expectations when I was little, but you get my point. I would make scenarios up in my head as we traveled to the Paris Sportsmen Club each time we went.
I would stand by my dad for a while, because the dragonflies didn’t come near my dad. He had a hat full of fishing crap on his head. I always wondered why he put lures and hooks and little bobbers on his hat. Who knew that fisherman were stylish? But, anywho, the head dragonfly this particular day, aka winged monkey dragonfly was going to leave the great Oz with the fishing lure hat alone because he was oh so great and powerful. No, they were coming for me, aka Dorothy, from West Virginia. My house landed on my mom and I had to put on red tennis shoes and find Oz. Red pom poms on my shoes would have to do. So, I couldn’t be standing near Oz to begin with if I was going to play Wizard of Paris Sportsmen Club, now could I? I would have to head down the side of the pond and see what I could find to represent the scarecrow. My mom headed us off that morning before we left.
“Vickie, you can’t take Susie with you out there!” She grabbed my little terrier from my arms.
Damn, caught. I tried to take Susie the dog, aka Toto, to the Paris Sportsmen Club with me that morning. How the hell can you play Wizard of Oz without a damn dog? She just pissed me off. That’s why the house landed on her that day.
Just great. We were only there for about thirty minutes when it began to rain. I was just starting to make a scarecrow out of sticks and cattails when I heard Oz (I mean Dad) call for me. We ran to the car and drove home. Those damned winged monkey dragonflies would have to wait another day.
I did find out something interesting that day. My dad told me while we were driving home that dragonflies can’t bite or sting.
I just stared at him. The hell you say.
I had been going out to the Paris Sportsmen Club with him for as long as I could remember, and he just got around telling me this crucial piece of information when I was like eleven. Thanks, Dad. Although actually, I think he kept that to himself. He had to watch me talking to myself, making up role-playing games while he fished. The dreaded dragonfly would have become just a bug, and perhaps I would have become bored while waiting for him to hook yet another poor little fish. That was an interesting ride home in the rain.
So, when it would rain and we would be stuck in the house, I would sometimes draw pictures of dragonflies. I couldn’t draw worth a shit, but they were dragonflies nontheless. I admired them but feared them. I just knew that the next time we went to the Paris Sportsmen Club, a huge, dragonfly monster was going to rise up out of the cattails in the creepy part of the pond and pick me up with their wicked fly claws and carry me away. Or drop me over the middle of the pond, where another water creature would be waiting for me. Like the gigantic fish with the whiskers. Don’t let the name “catfish” fool you. Catfish were evil too.
The Paris Sportsman Club 2012..The damn cattails are still there.
Well, I guess I got a little older and I was just too cool to go with my dad to the Paris Sportsmen Club anymore. I never went fishing after sixth grade or so. But, the dragonflies weren’t done with me yet.
Several years ago, we had just finished dinner, when my son called me out onto our patio.
“Oh my God!” I could not believe my eyes.
Now, you have to understand that we had an in-ground pool and a pond. Several neighbors had ponds. We were used to an errant dragonfly or two, hanging around. By this time, they were beautiful to me and my favorite insect. Everyone has a favorite insect, right? I had a dragonfly shower curtain in our pool house and dragonfly hooks for the towels. I was all about dragonflies.
But, what I saw made me smile, nervously. There were thousands and thousands of dragonflies heading toward us. And they didn’t stay high up in the sky, like the Canadian geese do when they migrate. Was this a migration or was this a swarm? Like a swarm of Paris Sportsmen Club descendants finally coming for me.
I mean, that’s what had to be going on, right?
Ok, kidding. But, what a sight!
We stood on the patio and watched them fly through. It was remarkable, but eery at the same time. Was it the end of the earth? Would some of those flying beasts have the face of a lion? Revelations and all that scary stuff. A dragonfly apocalyse.
Some of them hung around for a day or two. Stragglers came for a few days afterwards. So, of course, I went right to the internet and found out that green darners, among other species of dragonflies, migrate in swarms through our area toward North and South Carolina. I had lived on that hilltop for sixteen years and never saw such a sight. I am thinking maybe they were a bit west of their normal path perhaps.
photo princeton.edu
Perhaps.
So, that brings me why I am writing this today. I am wondering again about dragonflies. It seems that there are dragonflies in the parking lot of our local Walmart. I’ve noticed them for a few years now, and they are back again today. Why a Walmart parking lot? Maybe there was a pond at one time where this stupid Walmart was built a while back and by instinct they come back here. Nothing else makes sense. A parking lot is a stupid place for dragonflies to hang out.
As I unlocked my door to put my groceries in the back of my car, a dragonfly flew right in front of my face.
When I was little, we didn’t have fast food restaurants. We weren’t in a hurry. We mostly ate at home. You know, meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. Oh sure, there was the local A&W root beer stand. We were able to drive to the parking spot, and a girl would come out and put a tray at our window. We would order and the food would be brought to our car. This doesn’t work too well when it rains or there is a twelve inch snow fall. Hard to eat while wearing mittens.
Elby’s Big Boy was another place that had the same drive-in scenario. If you looked like crap, but were hungry, you could drive in your curlers or greasy hair and eat in your car. How convenient. And fast.
So, it wasn’t long before someone figured out that people would love to pull up to a sign with the menu written for them. They could order, be told how much it was going to cost at the next window, and then at the last window, pick up their food and be told to have a nice day. How wonderful would that be?
Although there were other chains who first claimed the ”drive thru,” the first drive thru McDonald’s was established in 1975. I was in college at the time, and I don’t remember what year the concept finally got to Fairmont, West Virginia. Probably last week. I would have loved a drive thru, as we had to put “scarf on head” and head to McDonald’s to nurse a hangover. Seems I wasn’t the only one who felt better eating greasy food the day after drinking jungle juice or swamp water at a party. But, no, no one thought to put a drive thru in a college town. They could have made so much more money during the mid seventies.
There are problems with drive thru windows, however. Just yesterday, my friend and co-worker, left McDonald’s and realized 15 minutes later that the goofy cashier did not return her change. $8.00. And to top that, she reported that the tea was so nasty that she couldn’t drink it and had to throw it away. First of all, I would never ever drive off without my change. Now, one time when I was trying to multi-task think, I drove right up to the window without stopping to order. But, her experience yesterday made me realize the two things that happened to me after leaving a McDonald’s drive thru once upon a time.
To be honest, I have a lot of things happen to me at fast food joints. Sometimes the person at the window drops my change on the ground and then just looks and says, “Oops.” I think that is translated as, “Open your door and pick it up.” But, one day I came home with something extra special. The thought still turns my stomach.
No, I didn’t get a severed finger or a rat’s foot in my sandwich. That would have made me rich. No, my delight was in my medium regular Coke.
Enjoy the surprise!
Now, I love my Coke. But, this Coke had a hell of a lot of ice in it. I could tell when the goofball head handed it too me. I was a little miffed, knowing that meant there was probably two sips of Coke and the rest ice in my cup. But, I drove home with my cup of ice and my cheesburger and french fries.
I took a couple of sips of my Coke, and realized I was right. Shit. Those stupid people put more ice than Coke in my medium Coke. I took another long sip and well, that was it. Not happy. So, I took the lid off and looked at the ice.
What ice? Oh, there was a couple pieces of ice. But, sitting in the cup, smiling up at me, was a part of the contraption of the Coke machine. The part where the Coke comes out into your cup had somehow fallen into my cup. It looked like a large plastic piece……..with…….MOLD all over it.
I immediately starting gagging. I was sick to my stomach. Dear God, the moldy coke machine was in my cup.
After I faux vomited for about ten minutes, I got pissed. Pissed like I was going to drive right back and shove it down someone’s throat.
So, I drove back to McDonald’s with my little toy surprise. I marched in and asked for the manager. He came right out and I began my little tirade.
“Um, are you by any chance missing something?”
“I’m sorry. Missing something?”
“Uh, yeah, like a part of the Coke machine?” I then opened my coke cup and revealed the black moldy cokey piece.
And this is the part that made me want to spit nails. He said to me.
“Thanks.” And walked away with Moldy. The hell you say?
“Excuse me??? Seriously, that is it? I drove home with MOLD in my drink. I wasn’t able to eat any of my Quarter pounder meal because I was vomiting. I think you owe me a new meal…..and an apology instead of a thanks…..And please write down your name so I will be able to give it to my lawyer.” I don’t mess around. Notice I super-sized my original order.
The manager gave me back my money and gave me a new Quarter pounder value meal. Which was much better than the cheeseburger and small fries that I had to begin with. Well, I wouldn’t have lied if he had apologized profusely the first time.
The second time the drive thru window did me wrong was sort of comical. I can’t remember the deal, but our McDonald’s had a certain day when cheeseburgers were like $.50 each or something pretty damn cheap. I went through the fast food window and got cheeseburgers for the fam and chicken nuggets for my daughter as even back then she did not like hamburgers. So, I drove home and unloaded the burgers, the fries, and went to the fridge for the ketchup for the fries. And then my husband spoke up.
“Vick, where are the cheeseburgers?”
“Um, right in front of you.” Duh.
“No…..where ARE the cheeseburgers?”
My husband lifted up his bun to reveal a….bun. I brought home six cheeseburgers and none of them had the patties in them.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
So, I drove back to McDonald’s and asked to see the manager. I showed him the meatless meal and pointed out that all of the large french fries, sitting on my kitchen island, were cold now because I had to drive all the way back here….from Saskatoon, Canada….or three minutes down the road.
I had to laugh at that one. That’s like going to Kentucky Fried Chicken and coming home with a box of mashed potatoes and a roll. Or something like that. Maybe that Hamburglar really does have a problem with stealing. You just never know about Old McDonalds.
So, kids, stealing is ok.
So sure, fast food drive thru’s may be convenient and quick, but are they really? How many times do people go home with the man’s order who was in back of you in line? How many times did you get a mixture of tea and Sprite instead of a Coke? And how many times did you not get a straw or napkins when you were planning to eat while driving? Maybe it’s worth it, and maybe it’s not.
I wonder what the future holds for fast food. I’m thinking the Jetson’s. You won’t even have to go out of your space pod. Just push a button and it will appear. A Food-A-Rac-A-Cycle.
And hopefully, it won’t come with a side order of mold or no meat.
I pull my car into the parking lot behind our elementary school every day. Well, except for weekends, of course. I normally do not pay attention to my surroundings as I gather my little teacher bag, purse, and other paraphernalia that clutters my passenger seat each morning, and make my way to the side door.
Oh sure, once in a while, like after a big rain, I may stop to pick up a few earthworms that I know will never make it back to the grass before the sun beats down on them and fries their little bodies. I help them. Worms are people too.
Once in a while I talk to the cat who lives somewhere in the neighborhood but prefers the parade of people sweet talking to him as they make their way with their own teaching paraphernalia into the side door.
But, yesterday, I looked farther than the back parking lot. We are faced on two sides by a cemetery. On one side is a church with a yard full of tombstones. To the back are more tombstones. I look at them all the time as I pull in. I even asked a co-worker one time during Halloween, “You do see that woman by that grave, right?”
But, yesterday, I really looked at them. We were dismissed early due to water problems, so I was in no hurry to go nowhere. I sat in my car and surveyed all of the memorials. The cemetery is filled with love and rememberance. It was sad, yet lovely at the same time. So, I took out my camera and starting snapping pictures.
There is understandable sadness among the residents. Some left this earth too soon. I am sure some left without being able to say goodbye. Some had a long, painful goodbye. These people were loved. I spotted one statue from my car.
The grass was wet, so I didn’t attempt the walk to the grave. I also have a bit of a problem walking through other people’s memories. Forever marked. Forever loved. So, I closed in on this particular point of interest.
Some of the tombstones, once erect, bend towards the sun. Others are crumbling from the effect of acid rain and time. But, this little angelic marker stands tall and begs me to get a closer look.
On closer inspection with my camera’s zoom, I notice that the poor angelic figure is crumbling. His sad face will be but a memory. How long has it been there, I wonder? I just don’t want to invade its privacy.
I for one, will not have a headstone or marker, for I want to be cremated so I can sit on my kids’ mantles and listen to everything that is going on, for that is how I roll. I just can’t grasp the idea of being placed underground. Oh, I know that I will be dead, and it won’t matter. But, being in a lovely vase where my children can talk to me seems fitting for the kind of person I am.
As I put my camera away after one final photo of the cemetery, I have to admit that it has opened my eyes to the other cemeteries that I pass every day. I don’t even give it a thought as I drive by each one. It’s a graveyard, after all. Nothing more, nothing less. But, I now want to take pictures of the wonderful memorials that are placed there as a result of grief and enduring love.
Time may overtake these wonderful reflections of loss.
I think I will pay more attention on my daily drive.
I have always been 5’4″ tall. Or short, depending how you look at it. I have never minded being short. I like looking up. And I don’t get rained on first. So, there are always perks. But, as I get older, I really think I am getting shorter. That thought, of course, took me back to my childhood and how my mom would back us up to the wall and score a pencil through our scalp. It was measuring time.
The walls in our kitchen were painted a pale pale yellow. That or they were white and were soot covered due to the smokestack that was my mother. In the kitchen was a door that led us to the basement. And right beside it, for everyone to view, was her growth chart.
Every once in a while, my mom would summon us to the kitchen. We had to kick off our shoes and put our heels to the wall and stand as still as a statue while she marked our new height. She would then put our name and the date on that line. I would usually get slapped to stand still. Hyperactive chihuahuas can’t stand still for very long. And besides, I didn’t understand why we had to do this. I was the oldest, so I should be the tallest. Cheryl was four years younger, so she should be the shortest. And who the hell cares that we are growing? Um, aren’t we supposed to grow? I just didn’t get it.
Oh, I realize that things like this matter to mothers. I know how much I weighed when I was born and how long I was. So what? Is that going to make me smarter than other babies? I mean, sure, if I weighed 8 ounces at birth, there would be a little concern. Duh. But, as I aged a bit, I got to thinking about why my mom did this stupid measuring ritual. I used to think that my mom was the only one who did this and that it was because David and I were adopted and she was afraid we were going to be midgets. You really don’t know what you get when you adopt. And I was thinking that I must be a midget.
So, this worried me. I never told anyone about this. I didn’t want anyone to know that I may be a midget. I realize that I am being politically incorrect with my “midget” talk, but that’s what we called them in the sixties. No one said, “little person.” They said “munchkins” once in a while, but that is because of the Wizard of Oz. Shit, maybe my dad or grandfather was the mayor of Munchkinland. I was going to have to wait about 6 months for it to be on tv again. I would have to wait to check the resemblance.
But, you know, I didn’t feel like a midget. Maybe my mom just liked to mark up the kitchen wall. Graffiti woman. I couldn’t wait for the house to drop on the wicked witch of the east. There was only one thing to do. I had to just come out and ask my mom. I approached her one evening while she was reading her National Enquirer and smoking her precious Salem cigarette. The dog was on her lap.
“Why do you measure us with a pencil all of the time?”
“To show you how nice and tall you are growing.” She saved an exhale of lovely smoke for my second hand lungs.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you mark how tall we are?” And then I burst out crying.
“Am I a midget?”
“What? ……Vickie, what are you talking about?” She laughed at me. And that pissed me off.
“David and I are midgets.”
“You are not a midget. Your height is normal for your age. You are just very thin.” What? Midgets couldn’t be thin?
I just couldn’t quit crying. I am trying to remember how old I was when I asked her this. I do remember wearing my stupid plaidish skirt uniform that I had to wear while attending Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, so I had to be anywhere from first to third grade. My midget years.
Later that evening, I could over hear my mom talking to her friend, Lenore, on the telephone. Lenore lived in Tennessee, and had no business knowing my business. I sat in my secret eavesdropping spot and listened to the whole conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t know where she comes up with these things….. She thinks she is a midget.”
And then I heard her say it. I wish I knew what Lenore asked.
“No, not black. David is a bit dark, though.” And then she laughed.
What? Black? I can’t be black. I have blond hair. David could be black. And a midget.
Adoption just sucks.
Well, I obsessed for a few days before I found out that a lot of people had measuring charts. Some had them in closets. Some on the back of doors. Some in their doorway. My mom was a loon and had ours right in the kitchen by the telephone.
This smart person put them on a traveling door jam. When you move, just rip it out and take it with you.
I wish someone would have taken a picture of it before it was scrubbed off. It became a smudged eye sore after a while, this pencil marking chicken scratch of a family memory.
Wow. How many kids did these people have?
I was curious to see if anyone still does this. We did it with our kids for just a little while in our closet under the steps. When we built our new house, we just never did it anymore.
I found charts that you can buy.
I don’t know about this. I’m glad we didn’t have this giraffe growth chart when I was little. It was bad enough thinking I was a midget.
I would have been freaking out thinking that my mom expected us to get as tall as a giraffe.
And you know that would never have happened.
My mom’s second hand smoke stunted my growth I am sure.
Oh, hell, maybe I am a giraffe.
photo by Vickie Mendenhall-trip to the Bronx zoo to visit relatives
When I was little, no one in the neighborhood had a swimming pool. If someone did, I would have known about it. No, we had to get our kicks the old fashioned way. And by old fashioned, I mean running through the sprinkler, or waiting for it to rain.
I just watched a rain come through and it made me smile. It’s not summer yet, but I remember longing for a summer rain when I was little.
It is weird, but I remember my sunsuit. Well, I don’t know what the hell it was really called. That’s what my mom called them. And I think I had a million of them.
Now, you have to understand that my dad did not give a shit about his yard. He couldn’t care less if it had a bed of dandelions springing up all through the yard. He wouldn’t care if there were bald spots from where we used our sleds in the winter. But, I think that there may have been a man code in the neighborhood. When one man put out his sprinkler, they all followed suit. And that’s when we ran for our sunsuits.
photo Ben Mall via Pinterest
Now, sunsuits were different than bathing suits. Sunsuits were play clothes, made of a light cotton. Mine were tied at the shoulders, gathered at the waist and had elastic at the legs. It was a bathing suit, but not really.
This is pretty damn close, but mine always tied at the shoulders.
I wore my sunsuit when I played on the backyard swing set. But, you couldn’t get in the car wearing this. Oh, no, that would not be appropriate. I had to put on another outfit if I was going to leave the yard. That outfit had to stay in the yard. I guess I would have been labeled a tramp or something. Nowadays you can go to Walmart in your pajamas without anyone batting an eye, but back then, you couldn’t walk out of the yard in your bathing suit. No sir re Bob.
A couple of years ago, I stood in my doorway and watched a summer rain. And then I lost my mind and took off my watch and changed from my semi-nice sandals into my rubbery flip flops and went out side in the rain. Oh sure, I realize that people driving by probably thought I had a couple of screws loose, but I lived near the Rails to Trails, so I just started walking. And smiling. It was really raining. I didn’t hear any thunder, so I thought my chances of getting struck by lightning were slim, so I walked on the trail, and since there were no other crazy people out there beside myself, I was able to giggle a bit at my spontaneous moment.
When the sun came out a little while later and I searched and found a rainbow, I came to the conclusion that at 54, I had not grown up at all.
I bought a magazine the other day. As I turned each page, I came across a page that had one of those perfume inserts. I really don’t like when they do this. It’s like seeing the proverbial “wet paint” sign. You know you are going to open it up and smell whatever the hell smell they want to put in there. I could be smelling dog poop for all I know. Why are we so easy? Well, I realize, of course, that the perfume people want to give us a little tease so that we will run right out and buy their product, but I didn’t ask for smelly stuff inside my magazine. But, such is life! Estee Lauder wanted me to take a whiff of Beautiful.
It made me think of freebies.
When I was little, I really only ate Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes. And that was fine, because Kelloggs loved putting stuff in the cereal box as an added incentive to buy their cereal. Kellogg was like the P.T. Barnum of cereals.
There’s something inside. Buy me and see!
Product inserts were really big when I was little during the late 1950′s and 1960′s. People in the industry call the little enticements, ”premiums.”
Kelloggs was the first to introduce prizes in box’s of cereal. Betty Crocker put coupons in bags of flour as far back as 1929. So, this has been going on for a very long time.
Here are a few of the companies that enticed us with their freebies:
1. Bazooka Gum- You may not think of it this way, but gum is gum, and they didn’t have to give us a comic to read along with the gum. But, every time we opened a piece of Bazooka chewing gum, there is was, waiting for us. I didn’t know that Bazooka gum was owned by Topps. They had a thing about including things with things. I always wondered why the kid was wearing a patch. It bothered me. Did someone stick him in the eye with a stick? Bazooka Joe had some buddies in his comic strip. The one I remember the most was Mort, the skinny friend who always wore a red turtleneck pulled up over his mouth. See? I paid attention to the comics as I popped the gum in my mouth.
2. Cracker Jacks- I was never a fan of the carameled popcorn. It just didn’t taste good to me. So, I would buy a box just for the prize inside and sit and peel the wrapper off.
Cracker Jacks was first sold at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. At first, it was a mixture of popcorn, peanuts, and molassses, and was called “Candied Popcorn and Peanuts.” It was named Cracker Jacks after an employee remarked after biting into it, “That’s cracker jack!” Back then, that meant, “awesome.” The remarkable thing about Cracker Jacks is how a songwriter but it in the song, “Take me Out to the Ballpark.”……
Take me out to the ball game
Take me out with the crowd
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root, for the home team
If they don’t win it’s a shame
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
at the old ball game.
Talk about free publicity.
3. Topps- I bet my brother is not happy nowadays that he used his Roberto Clemente baseball card in the spokes of his bicycle. But, that’s not all that came with baseball cards. Topps wanted you to have a piece of gum. It was wider that the usual gum, which made it pretty darn cool. But, which came first? From what I have read, Topps wanted you to taste their gum. Why not put a piece with the baseball card to entice you to their other product. Pretty smart marketing.
Ok, yeah, sure, mine gum usually looked like this when I opened up the pack, but I still chewed it.
Here are some of the other ”premiums” that I was able to remember:
4. Coke- circa 1991-They inserted Olympic cards into their 12 pack of cans. I should still have all of these somewhere. I posted the one of Mary Lou Retton because she is from Fairmont and is living here now with her family.
There are so many companies that gave away toys and trinkets inside their packaging. Cereals seemed to be the main culprit. I remember fighting with my brother and sister over some of them. I’d let my brother have all of the “boy” stuff, so I usually only had to fight my sister most of the time. And that just meant getting up earlier to open the new box of cereal.
Which got me sent to my room once in a blue moon for having too many boxes of cereal opened at the same time. I only ate Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. So, having more than one of those opened was not good.
I do remember cutting things off of the back of the box. Sometimes it was a mask. Other times it was a coloring page. But, it made breakfast educational because afterall, we were reading the box. :ere are some other items found with their products to entice us to use or eat their product.
Circus train animals- animal crackers..wheels to make it look like a real circus train
Sugar Daddies-free wildlife card insert
Wonder Bread-Star Wars Card
Reese cup mallo card add them up and get something free..like a mallo cup
Butternut bread- Snoopy for President
Big one- McDonald’s Happy Meals- I could write a lot on just McDonald’s. Their Happy Meal was a way to get a toy in a box that also had neat stuff for the kids. You can’t purchase the toy separately. I still have a lot of the kids Happy Meal toys. Some are still in the plastic, so you know it’s going to be worth a lot of money one of these days.
Lucky charms-Harlem Globetrotter whistle
Trix-atomic submarine..What? a sub? Inside? I hated Trix. But a sub? In a box of cereal. MOM!!
You can get a Creeping monster inside if you buy this box of Honeycombs. I mean, who wouldn’t want one? Added bonus-It glows in the dark, people.
Or three “groovy” balloons. Balloons aren’t special unless they are groovy.
Yes, the late fifties and early sixties were a great time to be a kid. Cereal inserts were commonplace. Kids ate their cereal. Some ate their cereal as a snack before bed. Oh, my, the cereal companies were doing well. Even the cereals with the word “sugar” in the title did well. We had Sugar Smacks and one of my favorite, Sugar Pops. Life was good.
So, the next time you open a wrapper on a piece of Bazooka Joe gum, take a second to read the comic.
It is, after all, their way of thanking you for buying their product.
When I was a busy mother, I had no time to be sick. I even made fun of my husband’s dramatic entrance when he was sick. He would put on his green velvety man robe, house slippers, and would quit shaving. He would announce to us all, “I’m sick,” as he would slink into his wing back recliner. I would just roll my eyes, especially when he would take his temperature every thirty minutes.
“It’s 99.2. That’s really high for me.” Magoo told me that his normal temperature normally ran a degree lower, so Dear God, 99.2 was deadly. But, I pampered him, just like I pampered my other two children.
When I was sick with a high fever, Magoo would take care of me, too. He made me homemade chicken noodle soup, which was to die for, until mine started tasting better. He would ask me countless times if there was anything he could get me. But, and there is always a but with me, I could never be sick for more than 24 hours. No, that was the ultimate time limit for sick pampering. After that, I was on my own. I mean, on my own. It was like I wasn’t even there. After that imaginary buzzer went off at the top of the hour, I had to fend for myself. So, if I had a high temperature, it better be gone within the day or I had better hoard stuff on my nightstand. Which I did.
Well, Magoo and I divorced three years ago and I live by myself now, and I find that I am perhaps a little bit of a whiner when it comes to having a fever. I really haven’t had a high fever for a few years. When it gets higher than 101.0, I call it the “Shuffle Flu” because my head pounds as I walk. And I am sure that I am the only one in the whole world who gets a hight fever from the flu.
When you live alone, there is noone around who will be audience to your dramatics. I am lucky in the fact that I have my cat, Whiskers. Whiskers is seventeen years old and sleeps right by my head most nights. She was probably wondering why the hell I was getting under the covers so early last night. One time, several hours later, feeling like crap, I took my temperature, noting it was 101.0. I thought I should mention something to the cat.
“I’m sick, Whiskers…..I have a fever.”
She understood, I am sure. She gave me a couple head nudges and then curled up at the foot of the bed. She knew that I was contagious. Smart cat.
At 1:30am. “Kitty, I can’t sleep.”
At 2:30am, tossing and turning- “Oh, Whiskers, this is not good.”
And so it continued. I apologized at 5:30.
“Aww, sweetheart, I am so sorry I am keeping you up.”
I got up for the morning, in a sweat. I was soaked. My temperature broke like that twice in the night. My temp at 7:00am was 99.0. Yay. Maybe this was just a 24 hour bug. I really don’t like missing school.
But, as a teacher, I realize that temperatures are at their lowest in the morning. I had places to go this morning. Mainly because I had no food in the house. Well, I did, but I had no Coke. I will truly die if I don’t have a Coke at least once a day. Truly.
So, I had to go to Walmart. with a fever. I rushed and came back. My fever of 101.3 was greeting me when I came back.
I’m mad because just the other day I knocked on wood. Knocking on wood is supposed to keep you from getting sick. Well, whoever made that up is a liar. Liar. I still got sick.
One great thing about going to Walmart when you are sick is that you can even go in your jammies if you wanted to. I don’t, because I’m high class. I did take a shower, which is good for Walmart shoppers. I’m sorry to report that I used a copious amount of water in my shower. I did not want to get out. I am so not good to the Earth. It is awful getting out of the shower when you have a fever. You know you have to slide that shower curtain to the side, and that Arctic blastic hits you. My cat was sitting by the shower curtain.
“Oh, Kitty, it is so freaking cold.” Well, it was.
In the end, I realize that I like to whine when I have a fever. I posted that I was sick on Facebook.
“Blah. Had a 101.3 fever last night and was up all flippin night. I need a cup of “Oh, you poor baby” and a Coke. “
Well, I did. And my friends and family gave me a bunch of “Oh, you poor baby.” And that sufficed. Well, except for one, who said he could only offer a Diet Pepsi and a “Buck up,” which is my most hated phrase in the world. And he knows that. What he didn’t know is that, along with a fever, I also have a low tolerance for half-friends, so I pushed the delete button on him. I will no long have to read his whining posts either. Works both ways, Bud.
I like to think of myself as being pretty independent since my divorce. But, when it comes to having a fever, it’s nice to be pampered.
Even if you have to depend on your cat.
“Thanks Kitty….I hope you don’t get this.”
I wrote this because I know that many people live by themselves. I just want to let you know that it is ok to talk to yourself when you are sick. I mean, Tom Hanks got through rough patches on “Castaway” when he made friends with a soccer ball, “Wilson.”
And the animal shelter is always full of good listeners.
A lot of people have big problems with particular sights or smells. When I was young, my dad had a huge problem with an errant hair lying in the bathroom sink, smiling up at him. We could hear him gag. I really don’t know what it was about a hair in the sink, but it troubled my dad to no end. I would always blow dry my hair in front of the sink after my shower, so it’s not like it was dirty or anything. But, it never failed. Gag.
I, on the other hand, always had a problem with smells. Sights of gross or yucky things really never bothered me. When I was in fourth grade I would sit and watch a kid pick scabs off of his arms or legs and eat them. He was a booger eater too. As I got older, sight still never bothered me. When I had my wisdom teeth taken out, I asked to watch the procedure by looking through overhead mirrors. But, smells were a completely different animal. Completely different.
I can’t handle smells. I never could. I think the first smell that really bothered me was the smell of someone’s feet when they took off tennis shoes that were worn without socks. Just really bad. But, it really hit me hard when I was pregnant with both of my kids. Why do smells bother pregnant women so badly?
Women in their first trimester usually notice a heightened sense of smell. Bodies are changing and doing weird things to us. We have morning sickness, we crave crazy food, and we gag with smells. What fun!
I went around my school and asked a few people what smells bothered them when they were pregnant. One said “coffee.” Another said, “boiled chicken.” Mine were “pork chops,” among a hundred other smells. It then made me think of my friend, Jeanie.
When Jeanie was pregnant, she got very very sick while watching tv. It was a Karl Malden commercial for the American Express commercial, “Don’t leave home without it.” She wasn’t sure if there was a particular trigger to one of her senses that sent her running for the bathroom, but she told me that after that, every time that damn commercial came on during her pregnancy, she would vomit.
When I was a pregnant, smells drove me crazy. It didn’t just last the first trimester. It lasted until, well, today. But, I especially remember one day in particular.
I was standing in line at the grocery store. It was busy that hot, July day. I was standing in a line with about six people and their filled carts. I had two people in front of me and two behind me. There were just as many people in the aisles to the right and to the left of me. And dear God, someone smelled.
I was stuck. I could have lost my mind and asked people behind me to back up a bit, but I thought I would just breathe through my mouth. I could do that and not smell a thing. Well, except that I had a lovely summer cold and couldn’t breathe out of my nose that well. I was stuffed up. So, I had to smell the smell. So, I put index finger under my nose, which does not help whatsoever. My eyes started watering. My stomach started churning. I was ready to start gagging. The man in front of me kept looking at me. He was probably worried that I was going to throw up on him. Surely he could smell the smell.
I finally made it to the conveyor belt and was seriously considering bolting out the door. The body odor was that bad. As I was putting my grocery items on the belt, I just happened to glance out of the window into the parking lot. The man who was in front of me was putting his items in his car, when all of a sudden, he looked around, as if he was looking to see if anyone was in the parking lot. He then raised his right arm and smelled his armpit. He did the same thing to this left arm.
That poor man thought he was the culprit. It made me laugh. I finally made it out the door and on to my next smell.
I haven’t had a cold in a long long time, so whenever a bad smell comes at me, I can just breathe through my mouth. I only have time for the great smells out there. Like the smell of the wild garlic/onion grass after the grass is cut. Like the smell of homemade bread, waiting for me. And like the smell of hazelnut cream candle. Good smells.
So, pregnant or soon to be pregnant women, prepare to smell like you’ve never smelled before.
I really didn’t want to get snow. It is April 23 for God’s sake. What is wrong you weather people? We can’t have snow this late. I watched the Weather Channel off and on all Sunday, watching them adjust the predicted snow amounts.
First it was 4-6 inches of snow, with up to a foot or more in the higher elevations. After it was all in done with, we could see much more. We were going to lose our electricity because of the weight of the wet, heavy snow on the newly leafed trees. We were told to go to the store and buy a generator. But, whatever you do, don’t place it inside your home. Purchase batteries for your flashlights. Get some candles, because, well, we may not have electricity for days. If you stay home, make sure you have plenty of blankets. Drive to your local supermarket and buy milk and bread, as you may be stuck in your home for a few days.
A friend on Facebook feared it was Zombie Apocalypse time. I agreed. Something was not right. It had to be the Zombies. Or weather men who, despite their expensive techno gear and capabilities to forsee the weather future, still can not pinpoint a damn thing for us. So, although some areas of Pennsylvania and West Virginia got some snow, we did not get the anticpated snow. Actually, none and all.
We got rain. That’s it. Rain. And now, at 5:16, the sun is shining. Bravo, Weather Channel. I’m glad I didn’t go out and buy provisions.
Like I did for the blizzard of 1977.
Ah, the blizzard of 1977. I remember it well.
I was in college, attending Fairmont State College. Now, you have to understand that our college president, Wendall Hardway, would never postpone classes for a weather event. If a bomb dropped on the campus, he would not have postponed classes. I remember two days when the campus did not have water. Honey Badger Hardway didn’t give a shit. Go to class dirty. Stick a scarf on that greasy head. Classes were NEVER postponed or cancelled. Even when the blizzard was approaching.
At the time of the big blizzard of 1977, I was living on View Avenue, in a big white house with four other girls. Paula and Jeri were expecting their boyfriends for the weekend. It was Friday. We all got up that morning and got ready for classes. We had heard about the approaching blizzard, but not really. Now, you have to understand that we didn’t have the Weather Channel back then. We didn’t have the internet that would let us have our very own personal radar screens to check every hour. How cool would that have been? No, we had channel 12, WBOY, and their little studio only had half of a weather map. You could never see what the weather was like out west, because there wasn’t enough room in their little studio for a full sized map. The camera never panned over that way. I know this to be true…… Or maybe it was WDTV. Regardless, we had those stations and the big Pittsburgh stations letting us know that there was a blizzard in the making.
The National Weather Service was predicting a huge winter storm to hit West Virginia. Emergency announcements were being made on the radio stations.
But, we knew school would never be cancelled. Never. I drove my little rusty car, Rusty, up on campus, parked her, and started to walk from the parking lot down the hill to the student union when I saw National Guard trucks driving onto the campus. I will exaggerate and say that there were ten vehicles because I really don’t remember how many there were. I didn’t know why they were there. Maybe it was National Guard Day and they were having a ceremony in the ballroom of the student center.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was up. Students were either laughing or upset, scurrying by like little mice trying to find a mouse hole. I stopped a boy who was walking passed me, smiling from ear to ear.
“They are here to shut down the college!” And that’s all he said.
What???
Well, I found out soon enough that Governor Jay Rockefeller had sent in the National Guard to shut down Fairmont State College because Wendell Hardway refused to close the campus. A freaking historic blizzard was on its way and Rockefeller didn’t want anyone traveling home for the weekend in the midst of it. He didn’t want anyone on the streets. National guardsmen were holding bull horns and were driving slowly, telling everyone to go home. A blizzard was coming and the college was shutting down.
The hell you say? I just stood there and stared. Well, this was surreal. This is stuff you see in the movies. Big Jay Rockefeller sent in the big guns to shut down our fair little campus. I bet the honey badger was really pissed..and did give a shit.
Well, I obliged, but first went into our student center, The Nickel, to talk the situation over with everyone. The place was buzzing, but emptying out at the same time. There was a National Guardsman in the Nickel. Wow.
So, I drove home. As soon as I got in the door, my roommate Pat looked at me and said, “We need to go get provisions.” Provisions. Wow. It even sounded serious. There was a freaking historic blizzard racing towards us. Of course we had to get provisions. We immediately hopped in my car and went to the local Dairy Mart.
Well, others must have thought about this too, because the place was jammed. Luckily, we must have gotten there early because there were still a couple of loaves of bread on the shelf and milk in the cooler. So, Pat bought a couple of packs of cigarettes and some pop, and I bought pop and some potato chips. We were ready to be snowed in for weeks. Oh, hell, let’s drive to McDonald’s too.
When we arrived home, our other roommates were beside themselves because their boyfriends were supposed to be on their way. They lived about 2 hours away and were traveling on Interstate 79. Cell phones were not invented yet, so they didn’t hear from them for quite a while. They were supposed to be there by now.
Meanwhile, Pat and I sat on the couch, waiting for the blizzard, looking out the picture window. I was visualizing the boys, Joe D. and Donald, being blown off the interstate by the blizzard. God rest their souls.
The boys never made it. Governor Rockefeller had shut down the interstate. The National Guardsmen, who were everywhere throughout the state that day, had turned them back.
“There’s a blizzard on the way. You better turn back and go straight home.”
The boys turned around and called from a phone booth at the nearest gast station to let Paula and Jeri that they would not be arriving in Fairmont. More provisions for us.
It was early evening by now and we were watching the news. Everyone in the mountain state were off the roads. We braced for the blizzard of the century. Charleston, our state capitol, was a ghost town. No one was on the streets. Rockefeller made sure we would be ready and that the road crews would not have to contend with stranded motorists. The newly inaugurated governor was making his first executive decisions. This blizzard was going to be brutal.
According to WSAZ television:
“It is important for people living in the following counties to understand that throughout this night, they will be on a blizzard alert tonight,” said Rockefeller in 1977.
Blizzard alert. Dear God, there is going to be snow piled up past our doors. Thank goodness Jeri and Paula had bought food for hungry boyfriends or we would starve.
Well, the massive blizzard never came. The wind picked up a little, and perhaps a dusting of snow lay on the ground. I sat on the couch for hours. awaiting its arrival. My mom called to make sure I wasn’t “stupid” and would not venture out in the blizzard. I was not going to drive in a blizzard. I was, however, planning to go outside so I could say I witnessed a blizzard. But, it never came.
1977 Blizzard. Hit everywhere but West Virginia
Our governor took a ribbing for many years and the blizzard is now called “The Rockefeller Blizzard.” The state of West Virginia actually shut down. The National Guard learned from this mistake and since then does not mobolize until the storm actually hits.
The only one I think that loved the result of the whole blizzard scenario was Fairmont State President, Wendell Hardway. I could just picture him chuckling over the outcome. And I thought of old Wendell when this storm was supposed to hit us this morning, April 23, 2012.
But, you know what? When I heard about the storm approaching, I hopped in my car and went to the Dairy Mart for two- 20 ounce Cokes.
I guess there are a lot of things that just grate my nerves. I already wrote about the whistler that was following me in Walmart. I loathe people who chew their food and make that disgusting smacking noise. Keep your mouth shut please. And I want to be a teacher and hold out the palm of my hand to all gum snappers. You know who your are.
I would have to say that gum snapping ranks in my top 5 of “Things That Make Me Want to Slap Someone.” I really can’t stand it.
Years ago, while I was sitting in church, I heard a woman behind me snapping her gum. I looked behind me and gave her a look. Oh, it was just a fake smile kind of look. I wanted to connect the sound to the face to see if I could take her. Gum snappers have no place on this earth. Well, she must have just put the Dentyne in her mouth (I saw the wrapper) and she just really went to town on it. My daughter, also a gum snapper hater, gave me a look that rivaled mine. I was impressed and proud. But, the church gum snapper lady would not stop. No one else seemed to be bothered. Gum snappers remind me of cows chewing their cud. And this cow had to stop.
The church I belong to is not one of those raise your hands in the air and talk out loud kind of churches. But, I wanted to turn it into one of those that Sunday morning. I wanted to raise my hands in the air, sway them from left to right and then stand up and exclaim to the congregation-
“Dear people…. the lord just spoke to me!…… (Gasps from the crowd I am sure) And he told me that this woman (pointing to the gum snapper) is going to be struck down by a Mack truck…..this afternoon….if she does not stop her gum snappin ways.”
I could only dream. Well, I stopped attending church and so I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I run away from my problems. It’s hard to do when you are on a plane, however. Yes, there was a huge gum snapper in the airport while we were waiting for our flight to Cancun last summer. There was no way I was going to sit with a gum snapper in a closed in space for a couple of hours. It was not going to happen. I would have to shake and then slap her. I moved from where I was sitting at gate whatever and could still hear her. Shit. Thank God she ran out of gum and even told her husband she was out of gum. She was going to hurry and buy some before boarding the plane, but her husband told her no. She looked like a drug addict waiting for withdrawl. I was pleased.
So, imagine my surprise when I was looking at images on pinterest last night and came across a photo of a gum wrapper chain. Wow, I haven’t seen one of those………..since I made one in the early seventies. Completely forgot about those things.
Wow. I made a gum wrapper chain. I forgot about that. I made one either in junior high or high school. I hung it in my bedroom, running it all around the perimeter of my room. Sort of looked like a narrow little border. My room was about 13×13, so it was a long chain. And I made it. So, was I a reformed gum snapper? I had to think back.
You know, reformed people are the worst kind. Former cigarette smokers are judgemental. They will tell you to your face how bad cigarette smoking is for you. Well, some of them are. I don’t want to piss anyone off here. Some people who never wore their seat belt until they had an accident now won’t start the engine until everyone is fastened up. And some people who didn’t attend church and now found God will let you know all about it. So, was I a gum hater because I once was a gum snapper?
I don’t know how I came across making gum wrapper chains, but I was all about making one. It was easy to learn. Not so easy yesterday, when I tried to make one on my own. I forgot how it was done. Luckily, the interneter gods have photos and videos all about making a gum wrapper chain.
First, you need about a thousand gum wrappers. I remember asking my friends for their empty chewing gum wrappers. Throw away the silver inner wrapper and give me the outer one. I also remember chewing a lot of gum for the gum wrapper chain.
I don’t remember how long it took me to make the chain. I wanted to wrap it around my bedroom. And I refused to stop until I was done. I kept it as one long chain, so I am sure I kept standing on my bed to see how far it had made it around my room. I realize that I could have just laid it on the floor and run it around the same way, but I was an airhead, so I did it my way.
I never made a pattern with my gum wrapper chain like the person did in the above photo. I had no time to be colored coordinated. It was like one of those pot holders I weaved. Random colors. I was all about being random. My OCD anal ways didn’t rear its ugly head until much later.
It’s funny how memories can be supressed. I now remember my mom yelling at me to stop snapping my gum. Dentyne to be exact. It was the most snapable gum. Really. Dentyne.
So, I was one of those………..Wow.
I don’t chew gum so much anymore. I only chew it when I fly because that’s what I was told to do so my ears wouldn’t explode. I was fine this last trip to visit my daughter in New York City. And I didn’t sit by anyone who was a gum snapper either.
I wish I would have kept my gum wrapper chain. I remember taking it down when I went off to college when my little sister took over my room. I simply threw it away. I spent hundreds of hours making that damn thing and I just threw it away.
Maybe I didn’t want to be remembered as a gum snapper.
There are only a couple of things that are great about being 55…..Thinking…Thinking….Ok, there is one great thing about being 55.
I don’t have a period anymore.
Ok, guys, some of you are going to quit reading now. And that’s ok. But, if you have daughters, you should keep reading. Because you are going to hear her speaking in a language you don’t understand. You are going to think that she is doing something she is not supposed to, because she is talking in code. But, the lingo is geared to not let dad’s, brothers, or boys to understand what is going on. It’s “Period speak.”
Ok, yeah, maybe I made up that phrase, but it is alive and well. “Period Speak” has been around since, well, women have been having periods. It shouldn’t be a secret, but we think our code is just for those in the female persuasion.
Now, the whole reason I am writing this post is because I heard a teen-age girl on her cell phone yesterday. She was standing beside some dork who I assumed was her boyfriend, because I heard the code.
“No, I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just going to go home and lie on the couch….Yeah…. my friend is visiting. Giggle.”
I had to chuckle. She heard me chuckle. She could have flipped me off for eavesdropping, but she smiled at me and then looked at her boyfriend. He was clueless. Maybe he thought he was the friend and was going to go home and lie on the couch with her. He would have been fine with that.
Most girls use the “my friend is visiting” scenario when talking about their period. So, you are probably wondering, “Why the hell can’t you just call it your period and be done with it?” Well, because we can’t. It’s against the laws of puberty. Or something like that.
When I started my period for the first time, I remember to this very day, going straight to my mom, scared to death. She was sitting in the kitchen. My dad was in the family room, and I did NOT want him to hear what I had to say.
“Mom, George is visiting.” She just stared at me. So, I said it again, this time out of the corner of my mouth. “George. is. visiting.”
“Vickie, what is wrong with you. Gen and George are not here.”
Ok, we had a friend named George. A real person. Not a period. Obviously, my mother had never had a period.
Shit. My older friends who had their periods told us on the bus to say, “I can’t. George is visiting.” Every one of them used “George” as their code phrase for their period. I was just doing what they told me to do. Hell, I didn’t know. It’s scary to go to the bathroom and see that you are bleeding to death. My mom never explained a damn thing to me. Still pisses me off.
So, I tried the other code phrase. “Mom……It’s that time of the month.”
It took her a few seconds and then she got it. She told me to grab my sweater and we would go to the store and get some napkins.
WTF? Napkins? My friends all wore pads. Back in the late sixties, we had to wear a white belt-like apparatus around our hips. A sanitary “napkin” belt. There was a metal thingy in the front and one in the back to weave our pad ends through them. I am terrible at explaining this. Regardless, she had to take me to the store. Why the hell didn’t we have any in the house? It just made a better case that my mom must have never had a period.
“Elwood, Vickie and I are driving to the drug store. She started her period.”
I stopped in my path. You didn’t just say that……to my father!! Oh my God, Mom. I will never be able to look him in the eyes ever again. I will have to go live with my bff Ramaine or something. I almost started crying. I thought that we were supposed to talk in code so males would not know that we are on our period. We were never to use the word “period” in front of them. I was beside myself. I was bleeding to death and mortified. Plus, the stupid loon of a mother could have easily told me to put some kleenex in my underpants until she got home. But, hell, no, I had to go with her. Hello, Mom…Um, period….flow…..needs…to…..stop. Shit. This just sucked.
Well, time went by and I finally learned that you don’t need to change your pad every ten minutes. My mom was pissed when we had to go back to the drug store the next day. Well, shit, Mom. It sort of would have been nice if someone explained to me that we had to sit in that disgusting pool of George.
I began to use my code phrases around the male family members and boys in school. I used the “I can’t. George is visiting.” Or I would say, “I can’t. My friend is here.” I think those are the only code phrases I used. I was not imaginative. Oh, if I would have heard someone else say another phrase, I would have surely used it. The girls in Weirton, West Virginia, used “George” for the most part.
So, it made me wonder what other girls would say. I have a feeling that the girls today just say it without embarrassment. “I can’t go. I’m on my period.” Boys get it. They probably got it back then, but we had to hide it. That’s just how it was back in the day.
So, I went looking on the internet and found some interesting code phrases for having a period. I found these on a yahoo forum from three years ago. Here are some of them:
“I had a roommate that would always tell me her unwelcome friend came for a visit. Sometimes I refer to it as Aunt Flo. And I’ll never forget the movie “Clueless” where they refer to it at “surfing the crimson wave.”
“Ha! When I was in 7th grade my girlfriends and I use to call it “Our Cat”. I forgot how we developed such a title-but there was some reasoning behind it. I just call it my period now. I guess I’m too old to use pet names.”
“I don’t remember how this came about. but me and my friend say were going to china. we hang around guys alot and they have no idea what were talking about … its hilarious when they ask and were like uuuhhh …. nothing inside joke.”
“Me and my friends have this thing we say “our leg hurts” and if we need to ask someone for a pad/tampon we say we “need ice for our leg” i don’t no how we came up with this though:)”
“dont remember where this came from but me and my friends refer to it as George, i feel bad for any guy with that name now though.” Ah, that girl must be from Weirton.
“….The volcano erupted….My redheaded cousin is in town…..I got my car…”
Here’s a creative one.. “China time (Asian flag has a red circle and I taught my daughter to refer to that part of her body as her “China”) But,um, isn’t that the Japanese flag?
Japanese flag, not the Chinese flag. I wonder how old they will be when they realize they have been calling their period the wrong country.
It sort of matters.And here is what the flag of China looks like.
photos via wikipedia
I bet that woman knew my mom. Unless you are quite talented, I don’t see how your period would form five points…and be yellow, unless you are tremendously jaundiced. Just sayin. Let’s continue.
“When I was in school my friends and I called it TOM…..TimeOfMonth.”
“It’s red week…or Aunt Flo is here visiting.”
“I say I’ve been cycling. No one realizes I don’t currently own a bike.” That’s a good one.
There are other phrases, such as “My curse,” the easy lie, “I can’t. I’m sick,” and for those who never did care who knew, “On the rag.” I always felt that those were the girls who would grow up to be sluts. How could you look a boy in the face and tell him you can go swimming because you are on the rag? I would shudder at the thought.
No, it would be better to obey the rules and never let them know when you are on your period.
While teaching my fourth graders about solid figures during Math class the other day, I decided to show them how to draw a cube. You would have thought that I just found a cure for cancer.
Earlier in the year, one of my students was almost distraught because he couldn’t make a star. So, I had him come up to the board and baby-stepped a star for him. He was weirdly excited about this. I guess it’s the little things in life.
In my attempt at teaching my students how to make shapes and draw stars, however, I realized that I have created doodling monsters.
And it made me take a trip back to when I was their age.
I am not sure what age kids start doodling. If you have never doodled before in your whole life, then there is something wrong with you. Well, unless there is something wrong with those who doodle. Regardless, people doodle. What the hell does that word even mean? I had to go back to colonial days and name calling to find out.
When the colonists started getting pissed at the British for enacting ridiculous taxes on the colonists, such as the stamp and sugar acts, the beginning of grumbles and throwing tea off boats and the like, they started calling the British names.
“Hey, you stupid lobster……..Hey red-coat!” They wanted the British soldiers to go home. They didn’t want to pay taxes to read a newspaper or to put sugar in their newly imported tea. So, they decided that name calling that helped them cope with high taxes and soldiers walking around wearing white knee socks under their black go-go boots.
And they call us a "doodle."
So, the British soldiers, in their bright red lobster red coat uniforms, called back. They called those silly colonists, “Yankee Doodles.” Now, I teach the Revolutionary War to my fourth graders, so I know all about this time period. I am a little too enthusiastic about teaching it. But, we all know that a “yankee” is a northerner or another name for a colonist. A “doodle” is a “fool” or “simpleton.” In the seventies, we would have used the synonym, “retard,” but it is politically incorrect to say that word now. Retard. I just really like that word.
Anyway, that is what a doodle means. So, what does that have to do with scribbling on the side of your paper? Is that a reference that all people who doodle are retarded? In the seventeenth century, it meant to be lazy or wasting time. But, according to Wikipedia, “In the movie Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Deeds mentions that “doodle” was a word made up to describe scribblings to help a person think.” Ahhhhh, this makes so much sense. So, people are not retarded. They are pausing.
So, what Mr. Deeds is telling us is that doodling is good. It is a pause mechanism so to speak. You are pausing while you are thinking about what you want to write about. I learn something new every day. I also learned that if you put toothpaste on a pimple, it will clear up. See, every day, new information.
The modern meaning emerged in the thirties, and meant to “dawdle.” Mr. Deeds, you are confusing me.
Thomas Jefferson, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton are some of our famous doodlers. They had been known to doodle during meetings. Reagan most likely doodled with one hand while popping jelly beans in his mouth with the other. Regardless, did they doodle because they were bored, lazy, or retarded? I am sure that the answer could be debated.
I don’t know if the kids doodle in third grade. I only have a few who have started doodling in fourth. It’s usually just a happy face or a “hi” to me on a paper they have to turn in to me. I have a feeling I will be seeing a few cubes in the next week or so, since I told my kids that’s what I doodled when I was in high school. Or was it junior high? I think it was junior high. And I remember exactly what I doodled.
Cubes, flowers, and my name for one. Notice that it isn’t necessarily artistic people who doodle. I can’t draw worth a lick. So, I thought that I would perform an experiment. I decided to doodle and then see if doodles can be interpreted, like dreams. Maybe it can tell me if I am happy or sad, lazy or determined. Smart or retarded.
Some “experts” seem to think that there is a reason that we draw and that like dreams, these symbols have meaning. Well, let’s look into that. I’m sure there is a doodle interpreter somewhere on google…….Yeppers. Found one.
“Doodles can certainly reveal something of a person’s mental state, but it should be noted that no graphologist or psychologist would use them as the sole indicator.” Uh oh. I bet my little cubes mean that I feel boxed in. And writing my name and intials mean I am arrogant. And my balloons mean I want to be a social climber. Am I close? The following information is from drawsketch.about.com.
“Why no, Vickie……Regular patterns from geometric shapes tend to indicate an organised and efficient mind. Triangles are a geometrically stable shape but also suggest direction and sense of purpose.”
So, the author of this study is telling me that I have an organized and efficient mind, eh? I am stable and I have a sense of purpose? Simply splendid.
So, do you doodle? Look at what some of your doodling may mean. Because, you may be mentally unstable and not even be aware of it.
1. Boxes-”3-D boxes indicate an ordered mind and love of routine. Often drawn by people with a good sense of spatial relationships.” Ok, now boxes were and still are the number one thing that I doodle. So, that obviously means that I have an ordered mind and I love routine. Ok, the routine thing is true. Some of my co-workers would argue about the ordered mind part.
2. Flowers- “Doodles of flowers indicate a gentle personality, a love of nature, sometimes childlike innocence or wistfulness. They represent the feminine, passive aspect of the universe.” Oh, yes, I have a gentle personality. Go on please.
3. Stars-”Stars are drawn by ambitious people and may suggest a desire for self-promotion. Little stars indicate optimism, while asymmetrical stars suggest excess energy.” Well, I used to be hyper when I was little. Had to take a little green pill every day before I went to school. That’s probably when I stopped drawing stars.
4. Mazes- Uh Oh..my mazes are not good. “Mazes can suggest a feeling of being lost with nowhere to turn, being unsure of which direction one ought to take, or may indicate mental disorganization.”
5. Hearts- Notice I have none. “generally, hearts are drawn by people in love, but may also indicate a romantic disposition.” Does this mean I should join eharmony?
6. Repetition of doodles- “Repetition is a common feature of doodles that suggests a methodical, patient approach to tasks. Repetition also increases the significance of a particular motif.” I’m thinking that it could mean that one just isn’t creative to think of other doodle marks.
7. Zig zags- “Some sources suggest that zig-zag lines indicate an experience of harsh reality and a need for comfort.” Wow, I’m just all over the place. Does that mean I am unstable?
8. Wavy lines- “Wavy lines are sometimes drawn to represent long hair, meaning a desire for beauty and femininity.” Would that mean if I desire it, I must not have it?
9. Arrows- I have always doodled arrows. “Arrows represent direction and ambition. Drawn aggressively, they represent a desire for action. Drawn in careful outline, they indicate a desire for progression or advancement, especially if pointing upwards.” Aw, look. My arrows are pointed up. I want to advance.
10. Eyes- I would draw eyes with glasses sometimes. I don’t know why. But, according to the doodle doctor, “They are sometimes regarded as showing a wish to be desirable.” So, I’m ugly. Is that what you are saying? Oh, this just keeps getting better.
I personally like to doodle. Will I like seeing doodles on the margins of my fourth graders’s papers? Sure, as long as they have their work done. I usually let them draw when they get done with their work anywho.
In the end, like dream interpretation, doodling symbols and shapes can be interpreted too. So, the next time you draw a balloon, know that that really means that you are emotional and long for love and harmony. If you draw straight lines for boxes and houses, you like to be in control. And finally, if you draw stars and things with triangles in them, you are looking to vent.
It’s funny how you insert movie quotes into your every day life. After a while, you just expect everyone to know what the hell you are talking about. I, for one, am a big movie quoter. And today I “released the Kraken.”
You will have no idea what I am talking about if you have never seen the epic, “Clash of the Titans.” The Kraken appears in the 1981 movie, starring Harry Hamlin and an owl. And other people and stuff. But, the Kraken was my favorite character, mainly because I immediately liked the quote. The Kraken was a monster with four arms who lived under the sea. When one of the gods, Zeus, or some character named Calibos, I believe, said to “Release the Kraken,” an underwater gate lifted and the the monster reared its ugly head.
And today, I realeased the Kraken on my substitute teacher.
Now, I debated whether to write this blog post, as I am sure the girl will read this post. But, I have decided that she should learn from the mistake she made, so she won’t have to deal with the release of a Kraken ever again. Because, anyone can be a Kraken.
When a teacher misses a day, they should leave a note or detailed plans for their substitute to follow. I do. And I make it as detailed as possible. I had to leave at 10:50 with my principal for a training. So, I already had everything written on the board for the day. All she had to do was follow my plans. Easy easy day. The kids were even going down to our local fire hall to be entertained by Carnegie, so an hour program even meant less time actually teaching. It should have been easy.
This morning when I came in, the first thing I noticed was a colored construction paper menagerie of scrap paper taped on one of the student’s desk. Um, ok. I wasn’t sure why he taped construction paper all over it, but I would ask what was going on when he came in.
My sub had left me a note. Good. My kids behaved themselves. Well, except one, and well, you can’t keep a clown quiet. But, all in all, I was glad. I looked through my plans and everything was checked. Good. It shouldn’t be be rocket science to follow my plans. Simple and to the point.
Or so I thought. A nice note and worksheets and a test paper clipped together make for a followed plan. Smoke and mirrors, my friends. Smoke and mirrors.
So, the day began. I took roll and lunch count and I was getting ready to move onto their morning work. But, I only had to ask a few questions before the kids started cracking like mud drying in the Sahara.
They told me the day went well and that they liked her well enough. Now, you have to understand that I know these kids. I know when they are not feeling well and I know when they have brought problems into the classroom. They wear it on their faces. And a couple of my girls looked like they wanted to say something. I sort of turned my head and gave them a puzzling look. They knew I was on to them.
“So……did you guys do your own work on the worksheets?” Some shook their heads yes, some looked like deer caught in headlights. Hmmmmm, something was up. I decided to put on my Columbo white coat and grabbed a cigar. It was time to turn into an investigator.
I asked again, this time slowly. “So……did she help you with the worksheets?” Silence.
For a long second. And then they all started chirping. Hands were raised and they just started squawking. And this is what I found out.
On my plans, I wrote with each subject, “They are to do their own work. PLEASE do NOT help them.” I even underlined NOT two times. Now, if I were a substitute, I would think that meant that the kidlets were to do their own work and I shouldn’t help them at all. Oh, but my sub must have missed that part.
I could feel the Kraken waking up from a long nap at the bottom of the ocean.
So, I found out that the English worksheets were worthless. I had to throw them away. Why? Well, let me tell you. The kids had a worksheet on guide words, you know, like for a dictionary. There were two guide words listed at the top of the worksheet and all they had to do was look through a list of “F” words, and find twenty words that would be found between those two guide words. Simple ABC order shit. When my students were done, they went to turn them into the sub. The sub called them up, told them which ones were wrong or how many were wrong and sent them back to their desks with the worksheet. The sub had made a key on a spare worksheet and actually told the kids which ones to fix.
“She did what?” Oh, the Kraken was awake now.
“Did she do that for the Science Test?” I could feel my face getting red.
For Science, I wrote on my plans that the kids could study their study guide for ten minutes before the test. I always do this, as it helps some kids who truly study but have short term memory stalls.
“She was holding the Science test and asked us about five questions that were on the test….She was reviewing.”
Reviewing. Did I ask her to flippin review? Uh, no. I just stared at them. “What?……..What?” And then they started all talking at the same time once again. So, yeah, she asked a couple questions. I don’t know, but I didn’t ask her to review with them. I didn’t ask her to pick a few questions that were on the test to test them before they were tested. You know what I mean. Not good, sub, not good. It kept getting worse.
“She did take us outside at the end of the day for about ten minutes. We got done early.”
They got done early? How was that possible? So, I asked that very question.
“How is that possible? You guys had to read lesson 2 in Social Studies and then do the worksheet.”
On my plans, I wrote, “Social Studies…Read chapter 11, lesson 2. After they are done reading, have them complete the worksheet. They may have until 3:15 to finish it. Then collect all, even if they are not finished by then. They are to do their own work. Please do not help them.” I wrote it again.
So, from everyone still trying to talk at once, this is what I understood that transpired. She told the kids that she would could read the lesson so it would go faster. She read the lesson. Not them. She did. So they could get done faster to go outside. Just great. They told me she also read the reading story. She read it. Not them. This is getting so much better. She then told the kids that she would give them about ten minutes to do the worksheet and if they finished it they would go outside for a recess at 3:05. So, naturally the kids all rushed and asked questions, trying to get her to give them answers. Kids do this to subs. They are smart little people. And soon enough, the sub gave away two or more of the answers. Depending on who went up to ask. I had to throw out those worksheets as well.
So, at 3:05, one of the kids was still not done. So, what did the sub do? She went in the back and gave the girl the answers.
And the Kraken is near the surface of the ocean.
And this is when I lost my mind.
She told the kids that she would write a good note to me if they promised not to tell me that she helped with all the assignments. And then said again.
“If you promise not to tell Ms. Mendenhall that I helped you, we will go outside at the end of the day.”
And here comes the Kraken.
Two teachers heard me down the hall as the Kraken bounded out of the water.
“You have got to be kidding me!!!!” I picked up my detailed substitute plan and went hunting for the sub. I knew she was in the building.
Sure, I was dripping wet. I just woke up from a long nap at the bottom of the ocean. I was pissed and hungry for some answers. I called her out into the hall and let her have it.
I don’t remember what the hell I said. I was that mad. It went something like this.
“What part of “Do not help them” and “they are to do their own work” do you not understand?” Blah blah blah.blah blah blah..”You will never sub for me again…” blah blah blah. Growl.
My voice carries, Especially when making Kraken noises.
I actually found out about “her deal” with the kids after I let her have it the first time. Notice I said, “first time.” Shit. The Kraken was not done pillaging and wrecking havoc. I chased her down again. This time she was in the office. I eeked of salt water.
Growl…”Seriously….blah blah blah. I had to throw away the worksheets. They are worthless….blah blah blah….”
I went back to my classroom, collapsed into my chair and almost started crying. I wondered if the Hulk enjoyed turning into the Hulk. But, then I looked over at one of my students, and she was smiling from ear to ear. My Kraken imitation amused her. I smiled back and slowly transformed back into Ms. Mendenhall, fourth grade teacher.
You know, I used to sub before I got my full time position. I always did exactly what was on the plan. I was too afraid not to.
Now I know why.
There are teachers out there who can morph into sea creatures.
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
Remember when you were very young and you were given shapes and had to put them in the holes of the same shape? Well, you shouldn’t, unless you played with them when you were eleven. But, most of us have played with those little shape finders. Some kids were stared at by some guy with a clipboard, clad in a long white jacket to determine how long it took you to put the circle block in the circle hole. If it took too long, then you were retarded. (Sorry, my word in my generation.) Regardless, we had to fit things where they belonged.
And now I am doing that again with an addiction called Pinterest.
Pinterest. It’s going to what gets me fired from my teaching job. I haven’t gone to Pinterest from school yet. But, I want to. But, for those of you who have not received your invitation yet, you are probably wondering, “Vickie, what exactly is a Pinterest?” Hell, I don’t know how to explain it.
It’s like gathering and sorting and putting things in their places. Things we like. And we put them in little squares and rectangles. And then we give those little “boards” names, like “My Style” or “Bucket List.” You see, Pinterest is for pinning our interests. Hence, the name Pin terest.
Say you like cats. Well, there are cute little images of cats that other pinteresters (my word) find on the web and upload onto one of their little boards. And then someone might see it and smile and think, “I like that, and then you would re-pin it, which means steal it in a way. Someone is doing the work finding an image online and you can take it for your own little categorized board. And then maybe your friend likes that picture and takes it from you. Oh, they don’t take it, per se, but copy it. And it goes on and on. It’s all the rage.
Being that my explanation sucks, let me say that lot of well known people have pinterest. Martha Stewart, Ellen DeGeneres, and Maria Shriver, to name a few. Maria Shriver is now following me. Yeah, you can follow people if you like their boards. You can even see if someone repins one of your pins. Doesn’t this sound fun?
So, as mentioned so precisely, a board is where you put everything from one category. Here are some random boards that people have on their pinterest:
Recipes to Try Travel Furry Friends Quotes My Style Christmas
Humor Sweet Tooth For the Birds For the House Products I Love Fall
You can have as many boards as you want on Pinterest. Some people only have five. Some have hundreds and thousands of followers. As of today, I have 70 boards. I am following 74 people and I have 50 followers. And right now I need to wash clothes. But, here I am, writing a blog post on my wordpress addiction about my new Pinterest addiction. I’m so glad I don’t smoke or drink.
I do worry about myself when I look at some of my board titles. I have some “normal” boards, but then I have weird ones. I mean, I have one titled, “Ventriloquist Dummies Creep Me Out,” where I have repinned a bunch of disturbing scary wooden people.
“Nuns Scare Me” is another board. Because, well, they do scare me.
And then I followed it with some food. A board just for dips. “Dip It, Dip It Good.” I liked that title.
Here’s a list of some of my other boards. Well, just in case something may catch your eye. And then you could say, “Hey, Vickie likes that too!”
1. My Blog-Jumping in Mud Puddles
2. Wanderlust
3. I Love Central Park
4. Favorite Movies
5. Quotes and Written Stuff
6. My Fascinating People
7. Hang it On a Wall
8. Animals I Like
9. I Dont Think So…
10. History Dork
11. Funny
12. Bare Ware
13.When Pigs Fly
14. Saturday morning Cartoons
15 All Things Mendenhall
Yeah, I could go on for another 55 titles, but you can see my sampling and the things that “pinterest” me. Don’t you want to be a pinterester too?
Katie Couric just pinned a bunch of pictures for one of her boards, “Best Advice Contributors.” Pretty interesting selection. Or perhaps I should say pinteresting. She’s getting into it, I can tell.
All in all, pinterest is a lot of fun. I’ve tried new recipes and now know that I can use tootpaste on a pimple.
WordPress, please don’t be jealous. I have several categories just for you, “Photo’s For My Blog” and “Blogs I Follow.” Writing is still my passion. But, pinterest is my obsession this month.
And that’s how easy it is to put a round peg in a square hole.
While traveling from JFK airport into Manhattan, one obviously notices the skyline of tall buildings that make up all that is New York city. The buildings sit right against each other and compete for a view of the clear blue sky. Space is valuable. Most New York apartments are tiny. Oh, there are larger apartments, of course, but let’s just say the expense is much greater.
My daughter took me to a couple of eating establishments and bars while I was visiting her this past week. I love the look of the old brick on the walls and the close proximity to other tables. Space is at its minimum. The places are quite narrow. Some only have eight to ten tables that seat four people, all hugging the tiny perimeter of the tiny establishment. I liked it. Made me feel all snug in a bug in a rug. Their grocery stores are small. Some fruit markets appear on the street to make room. They work with what they have. I love it.
All in all, real estate in New York is pricey and you don’t get a lot of bang for your buck. But, that’s ok. It’s a trade off for being able to live and work in the greatest city on earth.
I did notice one piece of real estate that looks different from where I live. When I was little, we used to drive past the Paris cemetery on the way to my grandparents home. I had to hear the same joke from my dad every single time. Oh, how I wish I could hear it one more time.
“Hey, Vickie, guess how many people are dead in that cemetery?”
“I don’t know, Dad. How many?”
“All of them.” And he would crack up like it was the first time he ever told the joke. I am serious when I say that I heard that joke at least one hundred times. As I got older, I would act like I never heard the joke before. That made it a lot of fun.
But, the Paris cemetery had some green space. Shouldn’t all cemeteries? Doesn’t everyone want to be placed under an oak tree after they die? I mean, I sure as hell don’t, but really what is the purpose of a cemetery? It is supposed to be, afterall, a “final resting place.” Well, I want to be buried in the sand on the beach then. Beach burials. I think I have something here.
But if we are supposed to be “resting” , I’m thinking that they think differently in New York City about burying people. I was amazed how the people of New York are basically buried on top of each other. Well, I mean, dead people. I am sure they don’t mind having their coffins touching another one. After all, it’s New York. They die like they live. Close to others.
photo via wikipedia
The trip from the airport took me by several graveyards. I was amazed as to how close the marble headstones are to each other. There is no rhyme nor reason. I can’t imagine hunting for an ancestor. How the hell would you even to begin to find someone? Genealogy is a big thing in this country. I even belonged to Ancestry.com for a few weeks. Finding a grave in New York City would be like, well, finding a particular park bench in Central Park. Except that would be so much easier. I am sure they would have to have a graveyard counter person.
May you rest in one piece
“Oh, Wilbur Macgillicutty? Yes, Wilbur is resting in row 2C, space 4.” This is how it is probably done in a majority of cemeteries.
Oh, not in New York. Good luck finding Wilbur Macgillicutty. And if you are looking for a Joe Smith, good freaking luck. I don’t see how it could be done. The gravesites are that close to each other.
As for visiting when you do find the gravesite, forgetaboutit. There is no room to sit down and have a conversation with your grandpa. You would be sitting down on Mrs. Martino. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Don’t go there on a hot sunny day. There aren’t many trees, if any at all. Remember, space is limited. It’s New York City.
I guess it is a good thing that there is at least someplace to lie your head after you die in New York City. They could have put you on a barge and set you out to sea. I mean, you have to go somewhere.
As the real estate in New York gets more expensive and land becomes even more precious than it is now in 2012, what will become of the cemeteries in New York City? I’ve watched Poltergeist, you know. I know what greedy land developers are capable of. They have been moving cemeteries for centuries. Or just their headstones. Scared, aren’t you?
So, what is going to happen? Some cemeteries are filled up I am sure.
Will they start making cremations the norm? I have my own valid suggestions. Now, don’t get upset with me. I just personally don’t want to be buried. I’m too claustrophobic. Oh sure, I know I will be dead, but perhaps the dead have feeling too. We don’t know for sure, now do we?
This is what I think we should do.
Space- Well, we need “space,” right? Well, why not the real space? You know, like way out there. I know our space program has been dismantled, but I think that was a bad decision. You could put the dearly departed in space and inject them into an asteroid belt. They would have different orbits that could be named. Just like how we have Orion’s Belt, we could have them called Rest Haven. People buy their very own star. Well, you could tell people that Grandpa is now in orbit instead of that he went to Heaven. Heaven is so subjective. I really think I have something here.
One big campfire- I, for one, want to be cremated. I don’t want people putting stupid wreaths on my grave that look like horse blankets for race horses. I just really don’t understand the purpose of cemeteries. Well, funeral directors are right up there with bankers and lawyers for some people. Ambulance chasers for the dearly departed. But, why not go to camp after you die? Relatives could sing “Kumbaya” and then put your little pine box on the bonfire wood. I would so do this. It’s better than having stupid piped in music at the funeral home and the minister talking about you, mispronouncing your name. I’ve been there when it happened. I just think it is a racket that I want no part of. So, yeah, send me to camp.
In the end, New York City is going to have to take a look at their graveyard situation. They are making money on tours, as there are famous people resting in some of the graveyards.
Green Wood Cemetery- In Brooklyn, there are 560,000 permanent residents, including F.A.O. Schwartz and Leonard Bernstein.
Woodlawn-The Bronx-More than 300,00 permanent residents…Nelly Bly, Duke Ellington, R.H. Macy, Herman Melville, Joseph Pulitzer, F.W. Woolworth. This cemetery is hopping. It conducts an Easter egg roll and has music by Duke Ellington at times, and an early morning bird walk. This is the one I believe that I passed while on my way to the airport. It’s huge.
In the end, there is an end. We all will end up there. The city of New York is unique in that there are so many people living there. And again, in the end, people need and deserve a final resting place. But, as real estate becomes even more expensive and rare, creative thinking will need to come into play.
And I’m thinking space will have some space. Who wouldn’t want to be lying among the stars?
Grandma and Grandpa. They did not get along. Why do this to him? Poor Grandpa.
I got back last night from visiting my daughter in New York City. She moved there last August when she started grad school at NYU. Before helping her find an apartment twice last summer, I had never been to the big city. The last time I went up there, I had to leave her and her roommate to continue on, hunting for that elusive inexpensive apartment. So I had no seen it yet.
Some people think that getting from JFK airport into the city is a nightmare. I found an easy way. Last time I took the AirTrain into Penn Station. That’s not so bad, but just getting to the AirTrain was a mini pain. This past week I decided to take the bus. Doesn’t hurt to try.
I flew on Delta for the first time and really enjoyed it. I know every airline has a horror story, but I didn’t have one. The flight took an hour, which is much shorter than the almost eleven hour trip I took there by Amtrak. I love trains, but a one hour round trip flight for $175 is pretty good.
As soon as I got off my flight at JFK, I immediately found the Ground Transportation sign and went outside, where I knew there would be people in bright green jackets. You pay them $12.50 and just wait for the bus to Manhattan. That simple. The bus was very clean and comfortable and the ride only seemed about thirty five minutes to Grand Central Station on 42nd Street. Sure, you could take a taxi, but it would have been $45 for the same ride, only with more people. I would have an extra $32.50 and that sounded better for me.
On this route, I was able to see new things. I saw where the old world’s fair took place. I assumed that’s what it was. I saw a huge globe and a tall structure with two flying saucer-like disks on the top. I plan to google that in a bit. I also passed several cemeteries, which I plan to write a blog about. They were amazing.
As soon as you get off in front of Grand Central Station, there is a door that says, “Subway.” I was amazed at how easy this was. I went downstairs, bought a Metro ticket for $2.50, and hopped on the Local 6 train uptown to Alex’s apartment.
“Mom, take the local 6 uptown train. It will be a green 6 with a circle around it. “
How easy. I asked a guy standing on the platform just to confirm my selection. I did make one error on my way. I was supposed to call Alex before I got on the subway so she could walk and meet me at the subway where I was to get off. When I walked to the platform to tell her that her fantastic mom was on her way, I had no bars on my cell phone. Uh oh, my bad. I didn’t think about that. So, if you go to New York, you won’t have cell phone service while underground. Well, my AT&T didn’t.
Maybe I’m the only one, but I just love riding the subway. It’s a little grimy walking down the stairs to the subway, but I love it. It’s like an adventure for me. And I love to watch people as they enter the car. One woman was sleeping. Another one was coughing up a lung. Some of the men were wearing nice suits. I always go to the shoes to see if they match the expensive suits. They did. I was having so much fun.
I called my daughter after I climbed the steps leading from the subway.
“No…You don’t have to meet me. Let me try to find your apartment. It will be like an adventure.” I laughed.
I am all about trying to do things on my own. So, off I went to find her apartment. I had already “walked” on her street with google maps, which is a fantastic tool. Just take the little man over to the map, plop him down, and you can travel on the street, veering left and right. I google walk all the time, especially vacation areas. So, I sort of knew how to get to her apartment from the subway station, but this is still New York, and it is huge.
There is a lot of construction work going on near her apartment. They are putting in a new subway line. They start at exactly 7a.m. and end at exactly 4pm. Noisy jack hammer work and the walkways are diverted through a temporary maze. And from the sign posted, it looks like this will be going on until the end of 2013. Sucks for people who don’t wake up until 8am. Well, they won’t wake up that late anymore. It’s very noisy. The walk was nice.
Fruit stands, like this one, are all over the city.
So, I had to go down, take a right, take a left, and voila, I am standing right in front of her apartment building. I am good. I walked in and had to punch a button so she can unlock the door. I have never done this before. I have watched people do it on Seinfeld and other tv shows, but I have never ever buzzed. I was excited. I walked up the one flight of stairs and she was at her opened door, welcoming me with a big smile.
She lucked out. Her apartment was small, as most New York apartments are, but hers is not teeny tiny. It has two bedrooms, a living area and eating area combined. Her kitchen is small, but hell, it has a dishwasher, so life is good. The bathroom is a nice size for NYC also. Hardwood floors. I immediately liked it. And not bad for $800 a month. I did research before we started looking at apartments and thought that she would be paying around $1,200 for her share for an upper East side apartment. She did great.
I took the 6:30am flight as we had plans to go to the Bronx Zoo. It was cold though, and thoughts of walking from cold exhibit to cold exhibit did not sound appealing. Where the hell did the promise of warm weather go? So, I told her I wanted to see her neighborhood. So, we took a walk. We went to eat lunch at Ray’s pizza, which was next to her Rite Aid and laundromat. As a mom, I liked being able to now place where these things are.
“I’m heading to the laundromat.”
I now know where that is in relation to her apartment. I have places down dark secluded back alleys, so it is nice to know I have an active imagination.
We then walked all the way up to Fifth Avenue to see the Jackie Onassis Reservoir. She runs to Central Park and then jogs around the reservoir. It’s beautiful.
Jackie Onassis Reservoir
After taking pictures of this area of Central Park, we decided to push stuff over because that’s how we roll.
Ok, just kidding. I thought the leaning lightpost made a good photo opportunity.
After walking around, petting dogs that people were walking, we ventured into the Museum of the City of New York. I don’t know. I was a bit confused. I thought I would get to see the history of New York. I wanted to follow along from the time the Dutch started the place through prohibition to the tragedy of 9/11. Instead, there was a huge exhibition of the grid system of Manhattan. And it was set up in neighborhoods, not dates. I wanted to see the history of New York. A permanent exhibit. I thought it was a waste of $16.00. But, I like going to museums. Next time, I will try another.
For dinner, she talked me into going to a Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment. I immediately balked because I am picky. But, I thought I should be more open minded. She took me to an Indian restaurant and now I like Indian food. So, we went to the Andaman Thai Bistro on 1st Avenue in Yorkville. Oh, glorious food! The shrimp/chicken dumpling was to die for! Curry puffs don’t sound so good to this picky person, but they were delicious. If you are in upper East Side and looking for a good restaurant, check it out.
We were beat by the end of the night. We went to bed early and got up to go to the Bronx zoo. She made me breakfast and off we went. We took the BxM11 express bus from 99th Street. It goes directly to the zoo. A zoo bus. It was a comfortable ride for $5.50 a person. I haven’t been to a zoo in years. I usually ended up feeling sorry for the little animal in its cage, but things have changed over the years. I was looking forward to going to this zoo, as it is the largest metropolitan zoo in the world.
It didn’t disappoint. I will be writing a blog post just on the zoo, but I will just say for now that my new camera loves the zoo.
We were at the Bronx zoo all day. It is large and most of the animals are in their natural habitat. So, we walked a lot.
We got home and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I wasn’t impressed, so I won’t mention where it was. We needed to be at her neighborhood bar for Trivia night. Oh, how I wish we had something like that in West Virginia. I would surely drink more. Her friends compete against other bar patrons, the winners receiving shots and drinks after the contest is over. I contributed, as I was pretty good with the “presidential hometown” category. I sucked at current events. And I knew that the Soprano’s won an emmy in 2008 for Best Drama. I didn’t even feel old or out of place and managed to sing “Hey Jude” at the top of my lungs with everyone in the bar at the end of the night. Fun times at Biddy’s Pub on 91st. It is considered an “Irish pub” because, well, it is owned by Irish people. It is itty bitty, only one room, but was packed for Trivia night. So, again, if you are looking for a pub in the upper east side, try either Biddy’s Pub or Off the Rails.
We were going to go to the “Top of the Rock” before my flight left, but my daughter found out at the last minute that she had a summer job interview, so I took off early to take pictures of Grand Central Station. I got on the bus, got on the plane, landed in Pittsburgh, and drove the 1 1/2 hours on an empty gas tank. Well, anything less than a quarter tank makes me hyperventilate. I made it back to Fairmont and went right to bed.
I am so excited that my daughter is living in New York City while attending grad school. Will she remain there after graduation? It is too early to tell. I think she would like to head elsewhere.
I can’t wait to go back after school is out in June.
The road from my hometown to where I attended college in the seventies was a monotonous drive. Other adjectives that come to mind are colorless, droning, dull, blah, flat, humdrum, mundane, and prosaic. This is my first time using “prosaic” in a sentence. It’s very exciting. More exciting than driving that road every freaking weekend.
I graduated from high school in 1974. The state road people were working on a huge section of Interstate 79 that would alleviate my need for boring adjectives. I could not wait until they were finished with it. It took me about 2 1/2 hours to get home. The new interstate section would knock off at least thirty minutes of tiresome driving time. Please hurry state road people.
Now, Interstate 79 may not seem like a major thoroughfare, but I beg to differ. Canadian snow birds use this route. I see more Ontario license plates than say, Pennsylvania or Ohio. Before this section of road opened, I’m sure Canadians were cursing as they veered around the wild wonderful almost to West Virginia roads.
I drove home about every other weekend, depending on what was going on in Fairmont. Freshman who stayed in the dorm were not allowed to have cars, but I was given special permission because my dad was having open heart surgery and my mom couldn’t take the time to drive down to get me when so much was going on. So, the college let me drive. I drove Rusty, my yellow Toyota. I named her that because, well, she was full of rust. There were dings all over her. People on campus did not care when they got out of their vehicles. I guess it is not fair to blame just college kids, because people of all ages and intelligence opened their car doors with no care as to what was in the way. So, Rusty was full of pock marks. She had car acne.
I had a car full of sorority sisters one particular Friday. I honestly don’t remember for sure who was in my car. I do know for sure that Stephanie was with me. She mentioned the episode to me on Facebook just a couple of months ago. And I’m thinking Anita, maybe Tanya or Irvin or maybe even Paula. Oh, hell, this I don’t remember. I know there were at least three others for sure.
We were traveling on the part of Interstate 79 that was finished. We traveled up to Mount Morris, Pennsylvania, right across the county line, when someone in the backseat made the remark:
“I heard the new interstate is going to open next week.”
This bit of news made me slow down a bit, but my pulse sped up.
Hmmmmmmm. Awwww, how wonderful that will be. I could use new adjectives from then on to describe my drive. Like pleasant, quick, and unmundane. Ok, maybe not the last one.
I wonder……..
So, I kept driving and didn’t get off onto the two lane drive of misery. There were barricades blocking the unfinished interstate. It was calling out my name, I am sure.
”Vickie, drive on me….. Be the first motorist on my new road.”(You really need to sound like a ghost when you say that sentence)
I paused and then saw a place where my Rusty could squeeze through. I was going for it.
Nervous giggles in the car. The worst that could happen was a section of unfinished road that we would topple into. We wouldn’t be found until the ribbon cutting ceremony. I could see it now…someone standing with a huge pair of scissors in the middle of the new interstate. Off in the distance you could see the butt of a car and smoke coming from a huge hole. Except that wouldn’t make sense. The smoke would have been all done by then…and well, maybe the road would be ready for motorists. Hence, the ribbon cutting ceremony.
There's no bridge over troubled water here.
Regardless, who would find our bodies? I was just going to have to drive slower than usual. Just to make sure there weren’t any paving machines or construction workers to hit.
I was able to drive for a decent amount of time. It was a barren road. A barren, finished road. I saw a truck driving over an overpass. Dammit. Whoever was driving paused and watched me drive by. Uh oh. He was probably the head road guy. Or not. Maybe he was just like me, a motorist who did not want to drive that boring shitty drive to Waynesburg.
Nope.
He called the coppers. The rat.
A state trooper up ahead sat in his car. His lights were on, and he was waiting for us. Notice I said “us” because this was not my idea. I was forced to drive by crazy sorority sisters. Ok, that wasn’t going to work.
I slowed down and pulled over.
The interstate barricade
“Oh my God, Vickie! What are you going to say?” Someone in the backseat was ready to crack already.
Well, hell, I didn’t know. Was I supposed to say anything? I got caught. I was just going to hand him my driver’s license and registration card. I was just going to keep my mouth shut, take the ticket and make up something for my mom.
My mom would lose her mind if I came home with a ticket for driving on an unopened section of interstate. But, then again, she would think that was a lie. That was too preposterous to be true. Seems like I was screwed no matter what.
The state trooper approached my newly rolled down window. I was just going to keep my mouth shut.
“Officer, thank God you are here!!!”
I went on to blabber nonsense about a car of guys chasing us and trying to get us to pull over. When I wouldn’t pull over, they kept hitting us in the back of the car. I was afraid to get off of the exit because I was afraid they would force us off of the two lane road over a cliff or make us crash.
“I knew that if I drove on the interstate I could make it to one of the exits and then get to the state police barracks.”
Did I just say that? Shit. I better cry.
So, I started crying and showed him my hands. They were shaking from holding on to the steering wheel while those guys in a black car kept hitting my bumper.
“When I got onto the new road, they quit following us.”
Someone added something from the backseat. Now we were pretty little liars.
He just looked at me.
I don’t remember what he said, if anything, but he didn’t give me a ticket. He let me go. Of course, I had to drive back the way I came and take the regular exit to the road of misery.
“But, what if the black car is waiting for us?” I thought that was a great point. My lie had to be genuine. If this really happened, that would be something that could happen. Sure, Lifetime movies weren’t invented yet, but I was way ahead of possible outcomes. The state trooper sort of smiled (sort of ?) and told me he would follow us to make sure we got off of the interstate. Didn’t he want to know more about Ted Bundy and his buddies?
So, we drove off. We talked about it all the way home. Now, this is where it gets foggy. Either Anita was in the car or we ended up at her house sometime during the weekend. Anita told me to tell her mom’s boyfriend (fiance? husband?) the story. So, I did. The man smiled and said:
“I would never have believed that one.”
Everyone in the room laughed. I was talking to a cop. Ha ha Anita. I think he was the Hancock county sheriff or a town cop. He could have been a state trooper. I don’t remember. I just remember a nervous laugh.
So, the moral of the story is that when two roads diverge in a wood, should you take the one less traveled?
I don’t know, but it could make all the difference.
My crazy grandma Orpha used to have the best saying when I was little. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.” I had no idea what it meant at the time, but I liked the way she said it. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. Or, in this case with a turnip truck, naive. So, when she said something like that, with such conviction, well, it always made me smile.
My grandfather was not allowed to drink coffee in “her” living room. I don’t think he ever spilled coffee to be banned from bringing it in her perfectly coiffed room. It is what he did to her that banned the dark wonder in a cup. Her living room was spotless. She had a light pinkish carpeting that we would draw circles in to use while we were playing marbles. Nothing was ever out of alignment.
But, when Grandpa would be allowed to have his after dinner coffee, he would mess with her. He would pretend to spill it.
Much worse.
And that’s when she would yell it from the kitchen. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Arthur!”
One time, though, when she let me bring him an after dinner coffee to his chair in the living room, he smiled and winked and then whispered to me, “Run in the kitchen and tell Grandma I spilled the coffee.”
Not giving me a chance to say anything, Grandpa yelled out, “Oh, no, Vickie!!! Hurry, go get a wet towel!”
And I ran.
I ran right into Grandma Orpha, coming around the corner. Damn, she had the best hearing of any old lady anywhere.
“Um, Grandpa spilled the coffee.”
At hearing this, Grandma Orpha sort of brushed me aside and entered the living room, horror on her 1960′s OCD face. And that’s when Grandpa said it.
“Looks like Grandma finally fell off the turnip truck.”
Oops, we lost Grandma a mile back.
Well, Grandma didn’t get mad at Grandpa. She got mad at me. Crazy people don’t like when there is a conspiracy. She called my mom and I didn’t get to stay at their house that weekend. Grandpa went back to reading his paper and drinking the “spilled” coffee. He did wink at me as I left. I wondered who the crazy one really was.
Naive. That’s what it means, you know, falling off the turnip truck. And naive means, “gullible,” which my mother called me every chance she got.
“Oh, Vickie, you are sooo gullible.”
“Eat shit, Mom.”…………….. Ok, I didn’t say that. Oh, how I wanted to say something.
Ok, so, perhaps I was a bit naive about things…. A space cadet…… An airhead…… A blonde.
Yeah, maybe just a little.
That means I must have fallen off the turnip truck at some point.
So, years later when I decided that I wanted to be a writer, I joined wordpress to start the ball rolling. I was going to be a blogger. I wrote and read other people’s blogs, and wrote and read comments. It’s been wonderful.
But, I didn’t expect this spam nonsense.
I had thirty five spam messages just this morning, waiting for me.I rarely read them. Such a pain in the butt. I have just one question for spammers?
“Do you think I fell off the turnip truck?”
When I first joined wordpress, I began reading some messages that were in my spam filter. And I realized that they wanted me to think that they actually read my blog post. You little shits.
I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.
Here are some of the spam messages that I received in the past day. They are so well written that it is easy to be fooled. Really.
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And finally
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Not realizing that they fell out of the turnip truck.
In the end, riding in the turnip truck at fifty-five is a great accomplishment. Oh, sure, I occasionally fall off.
But, for the most part, I am driving the damn truck.
Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
Photo credit: Fresh Tracks
photo credit: Banff National Park
Aargh, I’m a pirate.
following me home
photo Ben Mall via Pinterest
8. Animals I Like
